


Meet My Wife

by PrettyLittleWriter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2018-11-28 19:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 35,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11424363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyLittleWriter/pseuds/PrettyLittleWriter
Summary: It's not that he kept her a secret, it's just never come up. It's been a long time, but Sherlock's wife has returned to London.





	1. Chapter 1: Introduction

John and Sherlock are sitting in the living room at 221B Baker Street. Distantly there's a sound of a motorbike and it grows closer and closer and closer until it's parked right outside. The driver kills the engine and John happens to glance up at Sherlock. His jaw is set and his lips are pursed. His beautiful eyes are narrowed and he seems to be in some distress.

“Are you alright?” John asks. Sherlock doesn't answer. After a few moments the doorbell buzzes and Sherlock shifts in his chair, sitting up straighter and leaning forward until he seated on the very edge of his seat. They can hear Mrs. Hudson showing a person in, John assumes is a client, but he cannot figure out what's got his friend so agitated.

The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs can be heard and John turns and looks at the doorway at the same moment a beautiful woman appears, wearing a leather jacket and holding a motorcycle helmet under her arm.

“Hello, Mr. Holmes,” she says, smiling wryly. John glances back at his friend who's frown deepens as he exhales a long breath through his nose.

“Hello, Mrs. Holmes,” he replies after a few short moments.

“Mrs. Holmes?” John asks glancing back-and-forth between the two. “Please tell me that this is your sister-in-law...”

“No,” Sherlock says standing and smoothing down his suit jacket before clasping the button in front of him. “John, meet my wife.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Would you just… excuse us a moment?” John asks you, standing. He grabs Sherlock by the elbow and pulls him into the kitchen and slides the door shut. You set your helmet down and tip-toe over and attempt to peer through the frosted glass door.  
“Wife?” John shouts.  
“Don’t be dramatic,” Sherlock sighs.  
“Dramatic?” John says, not lowering his voice. “We’ve known each other how long? Everything we’ve been through? You never once mention you’re married.”  
“It’s not something I think of all that often,” Sherlock shrugs. “And on the occasions that I do recall it, you’re either not around or it never comes up.”  
“Never comes up?” John repeats.  
“Does he speak in sentences that aren’t questions?” you call from just behind the kitchen door. John lets out a huff and stares at the floor for a moment before turning and opening the door.  
“Someone please tell me what in the hell is going on?” He asks, crossing his arms across his chest.  
“You forgot to mention me?” you ask, sticking out your bottom lip in a mock pout. Sherlock regards you through slightly narrowed eyes, his lips pursed, clearly annoyed.  
“Right, and I am sure you’re telling all your friends about me,” he retorts. You ignore him and instead, turn to his friend.  
“Look, John… may I call you John?” you ask and John nods once. “There isn’t much to tell. We were a couple of crazy kids who made some rash decisions and things didn’t work out…”  
“Happens all the time,” Sherlock finished.  
“No, no it doesn’t,” John insists. “People don’t have secret marriages.” You and Sherlock exchange glances and both shrug.  
“Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” Sherlock says, “What brings you back to London?”  
“Why, you do, darling,” you coo and Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I need a divorce,” you inform him.  
“A divorce?” Sherlock and John say at the same time.  
“Yes, it’s about time, don’t you think?” you ask.  
“No…” Sherlock says, narrowing his eyes.  
“No?” you ask, surprised and confused.  
“No, this is not about ‘time’,” he says, taking a step towards you and you recognize the look in his eye. Your stomach clenches and you steel yourself for what comes next.  
“You’ve met someone else, you’re about to get married again. Only the poor chap doesn’t know you are already married, does he Y/N?”  
“Nope,” you confirm, popping your ‘p’.  
“Some things never change,” he says, looking you up and down. You resist the urge to fidget under the intensity of his stare. “I see you are still having trouble with the truth.”  
“It’s just a tiny little omission,” you say, smiling sweetly at him.  
“An omission is a lie. It was then and it is now.” He turns away from you and you realize John is watching the whole exchange silently, still with a stunned look on his face.  
“So what then?” you ask, crossing your arms. “You’re not going to give me a divorce because you’re still angry I kept a secret from you ten years ago?”  
“No, you can have your divorce,” he says, turning back to you. “Tell me when and where. I will happily show up and sign the papers.” You don’t bother to hide the surprised look on your face. That was less painful that you’d imagined it would be.  
“Great news,” you reply. “You will be hearing from my solicitor.”  
“Wonderful,” Sherlock says, smiling a smile you know is meant to taunt you.  
“Thanks, Sherlock,” you say, picking up your helmet and turning to show yourself out. He doesn’t answer you and you aren’t surprised. You head down the stairs and out to the curb. You shake your hair away from your face and pull on your helmet. Before you climb on your motorbike, you risk a glance up at the tall windows and see Sherlock there, gazing down at you. You hold his gaze for a few seconds before you swing your leg over the seat and start the engine. You can feel his blue-green eyes on you as you pull away and head down the street and you are thankful when you are out of sight.

“Talk. Now. Go,” John says to Sherlock.  
“Must we?” Sherlock asks, turning from the window. He crosses the room and sinks into his chair, seeming much more weary than he should be after such a brief encounter.  
“I think we should,” John replies. “Your secret wife just rode into town and asked for a divorce. So many of those things warrant a conversation.”  
“She’s not my secret wife,” Sherlock sighs. “She is a person I knew a long time ago-”  
“And married.”  
“-And married,” the detective confirms impatiently. “We were young. I was intoxicated by her. Looking back now, it was mostly physical…”  
“Pardon?” John says, leaning forward. “Physical as in…”  
“Sex, John,” Sherlock states, starting to get exasperated.  
“Jesus Christ Sherlock,” John replies, nearly choking. “Please tell me you don’t have any secret children running around somewhere.” Something flickers across Sherlock’s features and John almost misses it completely. He can’t place it and it’s gone so fast, replaced by his usual stoic mask.  
“No children,” he says and although he realizes he might be reading too much into this, John swears Sherlock almost sounds sad when he says this.

You pause outside the door of your flat and take a deep breath, trying to regain control of your emotions. You’d taken the extra long way home, hoping the ride would calm you the way it usually did, but a mere five minutes with Sherlock had stirred up some serious memories that had been buried deep inside of you. Wounds you thought had fully healed were now once again ripped open and exposed to the air. And it stung. Those stormy eyes, that deep voice - you had forgotten how deep it really was- brought back all those feelings from all those years ago. Your chest began to feel tight and you unzipped your tight leather jacket, suddenly feeling like you couldn’t get enough air. Gulping in deep breaths of air, you struggle to get your shit together. You shake your head slightly, push down all the painful memories and plaster a smile on your face. Placing your key in the lock, you let yourself into your new home.  
“Handsome, I’m home!” you call, placing your helmet down on the floor and hanging your jacket. Boxes are stacked against the walls, some opened, some emptied, some still taped shut.  
“There’s my girl!” your boyfriend Ethan says, rounding the corner to greet you. Seeing his beautiful, genuine smile makes you feel guilty about the secret you are keeping and about the flood of emotions you are experiencing brought on by another man. Your expression must be giving you away because Ethan’s own features fall. “What’s the matter? Are you alright?”  
“I’m fine,” you say, telling him another lie. Then another. “Some ass hole cut me off on the way home. Shook me up a little bit.” Ethan grabs you into a big hug.  
“I am glad you are ok,” he says and his voice has a soothing effect on you. “You know I worry about you out there on that motorbike…”  
“I know you do, babe,” you say, smiling up at him. “But I’ve been riding almost a decade, I am always careful.”  
“I know you’re careful, it’s everyone else I worry about,” he says. His words tug at your heart and you reach up and grab his face in your hands.  
“Ethan McCallum, you are the sweetest, kindest man I’ve ever met and I love you.” You kiss him gently, the fact that you’ve told him yet a third lie not escaping you. You join him in helping unpack and set up the home the two of you will share.  
You both work hard, trying to get as much unpacking and organizing done as you can before Ethan has to leave. He works in international finance and travels abroad a lot, usually for days at a time, sometimes longer.  
Later that night, you watch him pack his suitcase for his next trip, this time to Tokyo. He catches your frowning and reaches for your hand.  
“This is just for a bit longer,” he promises and you try to smile. “We both agreed to put down roots here and London. As soon as DeSilva retires, I will take his place and have a boring desk job, right here at home.”  
“Home,” you repeat, almost wistfully. He resumes his packing and you glance around your mostly empty flat and wonder if this place will ever feel like home.  
You haven't had a real home in years. You barely bothered to unpack as you moved from destination to destination. You want this place to be your home and you want make it a home with Ethan, but as you drift off to sleep, it’s Sherlock that fills your dreams. His perfect lips whispering in your ear that he will love you until death do you part.


	3. Chapter 3

_ Sherlock watches you sleeping next to him in his small dorm room bed. You are breathing softly and evenly and he resists the urge to reach out and touch you. Initially annoyed at being assigned such an aesthetically pleasing and potentially distracting Chem Lab partner, Sherlock had quickly come to appreciate your drive, and intelligence. During long afternoons in the lab and late nights studying at the library he was able to deduce the reasons behind your quest for scholarly success. You were working hard to put distance between you and your upbringing, and likely, your family. _

_ As his eyes travel over your nude form, covered by his bedsheets, he thinks about how he had watched you turn down dinner invitations from several keen male students as well as requests to accompany your female friends to parties or out for drinks. You appeared to be of a singular focus, which is why it surprised him when you asked if he wanted to join you at the pub for a bite to eat after one of your study sessions. _

_ Soon, the two of you began to meet at the library to study for subjects other Chemistry. Sherlock would pour over his Advanced Chemistry requirements while you grappled with your Pre-Med Assignments. Eventually, studying moved from the library, to the pub, then to one of your respective dorm rooms, usually Sherlock’s, as he had been lucky enough to draw private accommodations, while you share your student housing with a roommate. _

_ Eventually, Sherlock was met head on with the very problem that he’d feared when you had first been assigned to him at the start of the semester- his inability to concentrate on his studies due to the fact that he is becoming increasingly attracted to his lab partner. Your gentle demeanor mixed with the flashes of assertiveness when a subject piqued your passions, how your eyes danced when you teased him and the way you pulled your bottom lip in between your teeth while you studied all made him think of things that had nothing to do with academia. _

_ “Y/N,” he said, rather loudly one night as the two of you sat studying in his room. His deep voice and seemingly sudden outburst had caused you to start and you place your hand over your now hammering heart. You glanced up at him from where you sat at the foot of his bed. He was seated at the head of the bed, leaning against the small headboard, his legs crossed in front of him. He’d shut his Analytical Calculus book and was looking at you with a determined expression. Having realized he’d startled you, he cleared his throat and started again in a less demonstrative tone. _

_ “Y/N,” he said again, “I don’t think this… study arrangement is going to work for me.” Your eyes go wide and disappointment filled your chest. _

_ “What do you mean?” you asked. “Did I do something wrong?” _

_ “I am having a hard time focusing on my studies,” he said and cleared his throat again. His eyes were narrowed slightly and you felt your mouth go dry under the intensity of his gaze. _

_ “Your lips,” he replied, nodding slightly in the general direction of your mouth. “You bite your lip while you think. It’s arousing and it’s distracting.” _

_ “Arousing?” you said, practically choking on the word. _

_ “Yes, it makes me want to… kiss you,” he answered, his eyes flitting back and forth from your eyes to your lips as the latter slowly curve up into a smile. _

_ “Oh,” you say, shutting your own book. “Well now I am distracted thinking about your lips.” Sherlock’s own lips pull down into a pout. _

_ “This is a problem,” he said, grimly. You slowly crawled across the bed towards Sherlock and plucked his book from his hands, dropping it to the floor.  _

_ “Maybe,” you said, gently, “If we kiss, we can go back to studying.” Sherlock didn’t speak his answer, rather, he nodded slightly. You move in and your lips brush his. It’s nicer than he expected and he felt his hands, moving on their own, coming up to cradle your face. His lips parted, his tongue swept over yours and you moved closer, lowering yourself into his lap. You pulled away and looked up at him. _

_ “That didn’t work,” he murmured. _

_ “No?” you asked, surprised. _

_ “No, now I want more,” he replied and his lips were on yours again. _

_ Now, as he watches you sleep, he realizes he still wants more. More than a study partner, more than the physical love you both engaged in last night. He wants so much more. He dips his head slightly and pressed soft kisses across your bare shoulder towards your neck. You moan and stir, opening your eyes and gazing up into his. Your breath catches in your throat as you are struck again by how gorgeous they are. _

_ Wordlessly, he takes you into his arms, his lips capturing yours and you feel like you are free falling as he makes love to you again and you decide right there and then that you are his, for as long as he’ll have you _ _. _

 

“Sherlock’s getting divorced,” John tells Mary over breakfast.  
“Did I miss the wedding?” Mary asked, only slightly shocked at this news.

“We both did, it was ten years ago and apparently it was a short marriage but full of sex,” John says, wincing uncomfortably as he speaks these words

“Well.. if you’re gonna do it, you know…” Mary shrugs.

“What are you trying to say?” John asks, squinting at his wife.

“Nothing, dear,” Mary laughs, kissing him on the temple. 

“I just can’t even fathom it,” John says, half talking to Mary, half thinking out loud. “I’ve never seen him look at a woman, he’s never been on a date, the entire time I’ve known him…”

“What about ‘The Woman’?” she asks.

“I’m not even sure that counts as a romantic interest,” he replies, licking his bottom lip while he tries to come up with a way to best explain it. “It was almost like some strange admiration or infatuation… I can't imagine him marrying The Woman. I can’t imagine him marrying anyone. Never mind having… you know…”

“Sex?” Mary offers and John winces again. “Did you ever think that maybe she is the reason he’s so closed off? Maybe he got hurt? Or maybe… he’s never come close to feeling the way he felt about her for another person?” John mulls this over.

“You know what? For a deadly assassin, you are awfully romantic,” he says, grabbing her by the wrist and pulling her close for a kiss. “I love that about you.”

“Take care of Sherlock,” she warns when he pulls away. “Just because he has never spoken of her doesn’t mean he hasn’t thought about her all this time.”

 

“Would Sherlock think about a woman for years on end?” John asks himself on his way over to  Baker Street.  He still cannot fathom it. Sherlock thinks of things like tobacco ash and post-mortem bruising, not of past lovers. Even just thinking the word makes John cringe a bit. 

As John approaches the door to the flat, it opens and Sherlock comes breezing out. 

“And where are you off too?” he asks his friend.

“I’ve found you another doctor to help out at your practice, since we’ve been taking on more cases,” Sherlock explains. “We’re going to go interview her.”

“Another doctor?” John repeats, confused. He doesn’t get a further explanation and he doesn’t bother to ask any more questions. They wind up in front of a bustling cafe and Sherlock finds them a table. “Is she meeting us here?” John asks at last. 

“She’s already here,” he replies, nodding in the direction of the back kitchen doors, which swing open as you push through, carrying two plates. Your hair was pulled back, away from your face but a few strands had broken loose and were hanging down around your eyes. As you shake them away, something catches your eye and your gaze lands on Sherlock and John in the corner. Your stomach clenches and you struggle not to drop the two plates. John cocks his head, the same baffled look from yesterday on his features. You deliver the meals to the patrons who had ordered them, then wiping your hands on your apron and taking a deep breath, you head over to Sherlock’s table.

“Why do I feel like you showing up at this particular cafe for a late breakfast isn’t coincidence?” you ask. Sherlock smiles smugly up at you.

“Because you know as well as I do that the universe is rarely that lazy,” he says. “What I can’t figure out is what you are doing here.”

“Working?” you say, knowing full well that isn’t what he means. He shakes his head and makes a tsk-tsk sound with his tongue. “I ask you for a divorce and suddenly now you have the right to judge the choices I make? If you’ll excuse me, I have actual customers who want to order actual food.”

“You’re getting married--” Sherlock starts.

“Re-married,” John corrects, causing both you and Sherlock to flinch.

“Re-married,” Sherlock repeats, sounding slightly vexed with John. You think of Ethan and nod. “You’ve lived the past several years traveling from place to place, getting temporary jobs and living in temporary accommodations. But you’re back here, in London. You’re getting ready to finally settle down.” You nod again, narrowing your eyes at him. You know better than to ask how he knows all of this and even more than that, you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of having to explain it all to you. “So don’t you think it’s time to put your medical degree to good use?”

“Medical degree?” John asks. “You’re the doctor?”

“Yes,” you sigh, “I’m the doctor.”

“John would like to offer you a job, at his practice,” Sherlock continues.

“Really?” you ask warily, turning to the other doctor.

“Apparently,” he nods. You raise your eyebrows. “I could use the help,” he admits. “Could you come by Monday morning? I can show you around, give you a set of keys…”

“Sure,” you hear yourself saying, nodding slowly. “Thank you, John.”

“You’re more than welcome, but really, it’s Sherlock you should be thanking,” he replies. You slowly and begrudgingly turn to Sherlock, but before you can say a word, he is standing and heading for the door, a flourish of coattails. 

“Come on John,” he calls over his shoulder, “We have an appointment with a client back at Baker Street.” John quickly jots down his cell number and the address of his office on a napkin and gives you a knowing smile. As he chases after his friend, you tuck the napkin in your back pocket, still reeling over the interaction and wondering if there will ever be a time that Sherlock doesn’t baffle you.


	4. Chapter 4

_ Your palms are sweating and your heart is racing.  _

_ “I can’t do this,” you whisper, your wide eyes looking at Sherlock. He rolls his eyes at you and climbs on to the motorcycle. _

_ “Just get on,” he says, pointing to the space in front of him, the space where the driver sits. You do as you’re told, swinging your leg over and settling down. He reaches around you with his long arms and grabs both of your wrists. He gently sets your hands down on the handlebars. _

_ “This is the clutch,” he murmurs from behind you, his deep, smooth voice rumbling in your ear. “This is the break, this is the accelerator.” You nod, repeating the words in your head, committing them to memory. He stops his lesson and nuzzles your neck with his nose, planting a few kisses just behind your ear. _

_ “Stop it,” you giggle. “I’m trying to learn!” _

_ “Sorry,” he says and you can hear his smile. He reaches forward and turns the key. “Pull in the clutch lever and put the bike into first gear by pushing down on the gear shifter with your left foot down here,” he instructs. The engine revs and you feel the raw power between your legs. _

_ “Here goes nothing,” you whisper as you pull on your helmet while Sherlock does the same. He removes the kickstand and gently taps your helmet. You take a deep breath and slowly let out the clutch lever until the bike starts to roll forward and as you give it gas, it takes off and you know in that instant that this will always be your favorite mode of transportation. As you zip through through streets, you realize this motorcycle is a perfect metaphor of your relationship with Sherlock: Fast, hot, freeing and dangerous. You take a lap around the outskirts of the city before heading back to the university campus. You park and climb off, quickly removing your helmet. Adrenaline is rushing through your veins and as Sherlock pulls off his helmet, your leap at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him. _

_ “That was incredible,” you exclaim as you pull away. _

_ “You are a natural,” he says, gazing down at you. “Just like you are at everything.” He smooths your hair down and cradles your face in his hands before he kisses you gently.  _

_ His touch, his lips and the taste of him combined with your high from the motorcycle ride prove to be almost too much to bear and you press yourself against him, quickly going mad with need. The two of you barely make it up to his dorm room. Sherlock takes you on his small bed and it is amazing as always… fast, hot, freeing and dangerous.  _

_ Afterwards, as you bask in the breathless bliss that comes after making love, Sherlock takes a moment to reflect on the past few weeks with you. The thought of craving something, of needing someone else as deeply as he needs you is both terrifying and liberating. To give another person control over his emotions is scary, yet, it is somehow freeing for him to find that he is not simply the cold, calculating machine that Mycroft pushes him to be, devoid and detached for emotion. Up until this moment, he had never considered that it was possible to indulge in such pleasures while maintaining strict focus on his schooling. It is, he decides, simply a matter of finding a compatible partner. Someone who has similar drives and similar desires. He knows that you will not allow yourself to be anything other than successful, that your desire for him is equaled and perhaps surpassed by your desire to become a doctor. He even goes so far as to deduce that the two of you may even be better together than you had been apart. He smiles as he imagines himself explaining to his brother that, perhaps, there is an advantage to caring. _

***********************************************

Ethan is awake before you, having laid out a full english breakfast and packed you a lunch. You giggle as he hands you the brown paper sack.

“My little girl,” he coos, “All grown up and off to her first day of work.”

“Thank you,” you say, genuinely touched. This is what you love about Ethan. He is the responsible one, the one who grounds you, the one who keeps you from floating away. His thoughtfulness complements your distraction, his stability balances your variability. You feel safe with Ethan. Safe enough to hang up your backpack, stop wandering and set down roots.

“Make sure to tell your friend John ‘thank you’ from me, too,” he says and you turn away so he won’t see the guilt on your face. You lied and said it was your old friend John from Uni that offered you a job. You’ve never mentioned Sherlock, your divorce or your marriage for that matter and you aren’t quite sure why. Ethan would understand, everyone has a past, but you’ve kept it buried for so long that bringing it up now would seem like you’ve been trying to hide it… which you realize you were. You want Ethan to think he is the first man to make you feel love like this, to be the only person you speak your vows to. He is a good man and he deserves better than to be someone's second husband.

“I’ll tell him,” you whisper and he kisses you good-bye and you set off for the office. Your stomach flutters with nerves and you realize that it is much more than first day jitters that is making you anxious. It hadn’t escaped you that you’d just agreed to take a position with Sherlock’s best friend and crime-solving partner. This significantly altered your plan of returning to London, divorcing Sherlock and letting the past be in your past. Your past was now your present and you wondered just how much you would have to see of your soon to be ex-husband during your tenure at Dr. Watson’s practice.

You sigh and shake your head, telling yourself that you were lucky to land this job. You’d worked a few clinics in the Caribbean after you'd passed your boards, but somehow, after all your hard work and all your time spent, being a doctor was not fulfilling in the way it should have been. After spending months treating a steady string of sunburns and sexually transmitted diseases, you found you had picked up more shifts tending bar at a pub just off campus than you had at the clinic. Since then, you’d let your degree go to complete waste and it had gotten to the point where you doubted if anyone would even hire a doctor with less than one years experience who hadn’t practiced in almost ten years. As John’s office comes into sight, you realize that somehow Sherlock knew all this and that putting up with his presence in your life would be a small price to pay in return for this opportunity.


	5. Chapter 5

_ It’s starting to get cold, winter is in the air and you breathe in the chill as you walk across campus, tucked up against Sherlock. You haven’t been too talkative this morning and even now as you walk along, you are lost in your own thoughts. Sherlock carefully replays, in his own mind, all of the interactions between the two of you over the past few days, wondering if your melancholy mood could somehow be his doing. He can come up with nothing that he can fault himself for. He has asked you several times if you are alright and each time you respond with “I’m fine,” even though he can clearly tell that you are not fine. Realizing that he is becoming upset at not knowing what has upset you, he finally stops in the middle of the sidewalk and turns to you, a troubled look on his face. _

_ “I know you’ve said that you’re fine, but you obviously are far from it,” he says, concern lacing the edges of his words. His eyes search yours and you exhale slowly. “Talk to me,” he urges. _

_ “I am dreading the next few weeks,” you reply. Sherlock studies you. _

_ “Are you worried about finals?” he asks and you shake your head. He tugs you over to a bench and sits beside you. The colds seeps up from the wooden slats and you shiver. “Most times I can read you like an open book,” Sherlock murmurs, sweeping a strand of hair behind your ear, “Other times you are so closed off to me, I feel as if I hardly know you…” You feel hot tears sting your eyes. You are in love with this man, even though you have yet to work up the courage to tell him so. You don’t want to be closed off to him, you want to share everything with him. He takes your hand in his and gives it a gentle squeeze. _

_ “I don’t want to go home for break,” you say and a frustrated tear escapes your lashes. Sherlock moves to brush it away but you get there first, angrily wiping at it with the heel of your hand. “My mom has another piece of trash live-in boyfriend…” your voice catches and you pause for a second to try to regain your composure. You don’t talk about your family to anyone at school, not even to Sherlock. You’re ashamed, embarrassed and terrified that, despite your efforts to better yourself, that you might be just like them: worthless, useless garbage. You force yourself to look back up at him, but instead of the pity you expected to see etched upon his handsome features, you see something else entirely… something resembling determination. _

_ “We will think of something,” he says after a few moments. He raises your hand to his lips and kisses the back of it. He stands and pulls you off the cold bench, tucking you back under his arm, firmly against him and you feel lighter than you have all day. He didn’t ask you to elaborate on your mother, he didn’t try to give you advice. He just said ‘we will think of something’. He just said ‘we’. _

******************************************************

John Watson is a nice man and a good doctor, you decide after having spend the day with him at his office. His patients adore him and they are a bit wary of having their care deferred to another physician, but he assures them that you are top notch and he will still be very much involved in the practice.

It feels good, you admit, to don a crisp white lab coat and access the regions of your brain that hold your vast medical knowledge. You worked hard to become a doctor and working at the clinics on The Islands never gave you the satisfaction that you felt today, with John and his patients. Waitressing and bartending, your more recent professions, were a lot like practicing medicine. Meeting people’s needs, addressing their concerns, listening to them, tending to them and ensuring they left happy. But this is what you were meant to do and you'd put off doing it for much too long. 

Once the last patient for the day has left, John leans back in the chair behind his desk and fold his hands neatly in front of him. You know what’s coming next and you save him the trouble.

“We met at university, we were chem lab partners,” you explain and his eyes light up and he shakes his head incredulously. “We were together until we graduated, we got married, realized we made a mistake and...we separated.”

You can see that he wants to press for more, but he doesn’t want to ask. You’ve already shared more than most people would with a relative stranger. You’re grateful when he rises, saying it’s time to call it a night. 

When you get home, you let yourself into your flat and are surprised to find that it dark and still. 

“Ethan?” you call out. You set down your bag in the kitchen and head down the hall to the living room. You stop short and gasp, bringing both hands to your mouth. It’s dark, except for a few large pillar candles, which cast a soft, flickering glow around the room. Almost the entire floor is covered in rose petals and Ethan is there, holding a black velvet box. Slowly, you cross the room to him and he kneels. 

“Oh my god,” you whisper.

“Y/N,” he starts. “Meeting you has changed my life. I am the luckiest man in the world to have your love. Would you do me the honor of spending the rest of your life with me, as my wife?” You nod, unable to speak and he rises, opens the box and slides a rather impressive diamond onto your finger. You wrap your arms around his neck and he spins you around.

“It’s perfect,” you whisper and as you gaze down at it, you wonder why, if it’s so perfect, does it feel like a lie?


	6. Chapter 6

_ You are leaving your anatomy class when you look up and see Sherlock leaning against the wall across from your lecture hall. You weren’t expecting to see him until much later that day and you cannot hide your joy at this surprise. Weaving through the crowded hall, you stop in front of him, allow your book bag to slide to the floor and lean against him. You kiss him and he lets out a sweet sigh, as if this kiss was a re-charge his batteries desperately needed. You pull away and smile up at him. _

_ “What are you doing here?” you giggle. “You’re supposed to be on the other side of campus.” _

_ “I have good news,” he says, bringing his hands up and running his long fingers through your hair. “Professor Ainsley needs someone to house sit over break and I convinced her that you should do it.” He smiles, obviously quite proud of himself. You stare, dumbfounded at him, for long seconds. The noise from the hustle and bustle of the hallway fades and all you can see are his unrelentingly beautiful eyes. You won’t have to go home, you can stay in London for the holiday. _

_ “I love you,” you blurt out and Sherlock blinks, and tilts his head slightly to the right as his brow furrows. Long seconds stretch on and on as he says nothing. You curse your stupid mouth, your stupid heart and your stupid brain when suddenly, his mouth is on yours, his lips pressing against your own while his hands cradle your face, his thumbs caressing your cheeks. He pulls away and whispers your name, slowly, as if trying to savor the sound of each letter. He presses his forehead to yours and whispers, “I love you, too.” _

*********************************************************************************

Parked at a stop light, you glance down at your left hand, resting on clutch of your motorbike. Your ring sparkles in the sun, distracting you and you realize you should have taken a cab today as you are not in a fit mental state to ride. Everything that has happened over the last few hours has seriously messed with your head and you cannot seem to find equilibrium. Ethan proposed last night, and instead of basking in the glow of your new engagement you spent the morning in the company of a divorce attorney. He was drawing up the papers today and you are on your way to Sherlock’s to tell him the process has been started. As the light turns to green, you glance down at your ring one more time and wonder why you feel so sick.

You turn into Baker Street and slow slightly, maneuvering your motorcycle towards the curb. You glance up and nervously eye the windows of 221B, unsure of why you are dreading this conversation so much.

As you are pulling into a parking spot against the curb, you see a car pulling into the same spot simultaneously and you realize much too late that you are in their blind spot. You quickly weigh your options, on one side an approaching car, on the other is the curb and a sidewalk full of people. Your instincts kick in and you know that you have to ditch the bike. Squeezing your eyes shut, you lean hard, tipping the motorcycle and then, you are sliding. Your helmet hits the pavement with a loud crack and the friction from the road grinding beneath you heats the thin layer of denim protecting your skin. The bike skids away from you and you slowly come to a stop. You lift your head, your vision swimming and you see people running towards you. Your last thought before you lose consciousness is that Sherlock is not going to be happy that you've wrecked his motorbike.

******************************************************************************

_ Sherlock is sitting on the settee in Professor Ainsley's living room next to you, watching a breaking news story on TV while you sip your tea and there is something so domestic about this moment that you can’t keep the smile from your lips. Of course he elected to stay in London with you, to keep you company. It didn’t hurt that you had the entire house to yourselves and Ainsley’s guest room had a queen sized bed. _

_ “Something is not right,” he says and your brow furrows in confusion as you were just thinking the very opposite. _

_ “What's the matter?” You ask, suddenly worried.  _

_ “Something doesn’t add up here,” he says, gently rubbing the edge of his finger along his upper lip, deep in thought. He nods at the TV and continues, “This man had his wife arrested, saying she was hurting their son.” _

_ “Yeah, he is claiming she was sucking the baby’s blood,” you say, giving a slight shiver of disgust. “The news is calling her the Sussex Vampire.” _

_ “There are no such things as vampires…” he mutters. You watch him, his eyes narrowed, staring across the room but not seeing anything, his gaze unfocused. “I’ve got to go out…” he says, suddenly, rising and heading out. He grabs his coat and throws it on as he heads to the front door. He pulls it open, then pauses for a second. Turning around, he stalks back across the room and and bends down, planting a kiss on your temple before hurrying back out the door. _

_ Shaking your head at his odd behavior, you set your tea-cup down and reach for the remote, turning the channel to something less creepy and settle in for some mindless entertainment. _

_ Hours pass and Sherlock still hasn’t returned and you are starting to get worried that something might have happened. You also are feeling a little uneasy, being in a big, old house all alone with the talk about vampires earlier today. It’s very late when you finally crawl into bed and you fall into a fitful sleep. _

_ You are jolted awake but you are unsure what exactly has disturbed you. Your heart is racing and you know something isn’t right. You hear footsteps on the staircase and your blood runs cold. You reach for the heavy lamp at the bedside and arm yourself with it. You hold your breath as the footsteps stop outside your door. The handle turns and the door swings open and the intruder hits the lightswitch on the wall. _

_ “Jesus Christ, Sherlock,” You say, sagging with relief. He looks at you, holding the lamp and you suddenly feel foolish. “I thought you were the Sussex Vampire.”  _

_ “What were you going to do with that?” he asks, wearing a wry smile as he nods at your weapon. You roll your eyes and set the lamp back down. _

_ “Shut up and tell me where you’ve been,” you demand, crossing your arms over your chest. He crosses the room and crawls across the bed towards you, stopping to gently kiss your lips. Feeling your anger begin to fade, you uncross your arms and take his face in your hands. _

_ “I solved it,” he whispers as he pulls away. “I figured out what was really happening in Sussex.” _

_ “What? Really? How?” You ask, astonished. He lowers himself to the bed beside you and lacing his fingers behind his head, he leans back against the headboard _

_ “It was simple really,” he starts. “When they interviewed the husband, I noticed that behind him was a huge curio filled with South American artifacts, namely, weapons.” _

_ “Well the Vampire lady was from Peru, wasn’t she?” you ask. _

_ “She was, but she is not a vampire,” Sherlock chuckles. He explains that there was an older son, from the husband’s first marriage. Apparently, this son was jealous of his younger half brother and was shooting him in the neck with poison darts. Afraid to tell her husband the truth about his son and break his heart, she tried to deal with the the older boy herself. “So you see, she was sucking the poison out of the baby’s neck, not trying to suck his blood!” _

_ “And you figured all of that out from watching a TV interview?” you ask, astonished. _

_ “I deduced it,” he says with a shrug. “A quick trip to Sussex confirmed my suspicious.” _

_ “And the vamp-- the mother?” you ask. _

_ “Released and freed of all charges,” he says, proudly. You gape at him in amazement. _

_ “Sherlock...that is…”  _

_ “Incredible? I know,” he smirks and before you can call him on his cockiness, he’s grabbing you and rolling, pinning you down on the bed beneath him and kissing you until your head spins. _


	7. Chapter 7

Sounds slowly start to seep back into your consciousness and you become aware of a dull ache. You open your eyes and see someone has removed your helmet. Your sight registers the worried face of John Watson leaning over you. With a groan you try to sit up and you hear another voice, a deep, velvety one and it’s saying your name.

“Lie still,” it commands and you feel better knowing he is close. You lay your head back and close your eyes again.

“Sorry I wrecked your bike,” you say and you hear a small chuckle.

“The bike will be fine,” Sherlock replies. “And it hasn’t been ‘my bike’ since you took it for a ride and never came back.” It’s your turn to chuckle.

A short while later you are sitting in the back of an ambulance while John and to EMTs look you over while Sherlock leans against the ambulance door, watching carefully. They help you take off your leather jacket, which saved you from a pretty decent road rash. Under, you are wearing a black tee-shirt, which also had to come off so they can inspect the bruising underneath and check for broken ribs. As you pull it up and off, Sherlock averts his eyes, but not before his gaze settles briefly on the long, thin gold necklace resting just above your breasts.

“She has a mild concussion,” the EMT says at last. “Even though you laid the motorbike out perfectly, the helmet still saved your life. You are lucky you weren’t going very fast.” You know you are lucky. You are walking away from this, your first real crash in almost ten years, with not a single broken bone. Your entire right side is bruised and you are going to be sore and stiff for a few weeks, but you’ll take it. They turn you over into John’s care, telling him to keep an eye on you for 24 hours. He and Sherlock help you up to their flat.

John disappears to find you some pain meds while Sherlock observes you from his chair across the room.

“Congratulations,” he says at last and you give him a confused look.

“On surviving the crash?” you ask, your brain still fuzzy.

“No, on your engagement,” he says, nodding at your hand. You feel stupid as you look down at your ring, unable to believe you’d forgotten.

“Oh, right,” you mutter. “Thanks.” You want to meet his eyes, but you can’t. Ethan’s ring is so much nicer than the one Sherlock had placed on your finger. It’s bigger, has more diamonds and sparkles like it’s made of rainbows. Luckily, John returns with a glass of water and a few pills, breaking some of the tension.

“Is there someone we should call?” he asks. You shake your head gently.

“Ethan left this morning,” you explain. “He travels a lot… for work.”

“Your parents?” John aske.

“No,” Sherlock says before you can answer.

“I’ll be ok,” you sigh. “Just give me a little bit, then I will head home.” You shift on the couch, trying to get comfortable before you close your eyes and wait for the pain medication to kick in. Sherlock watches you slowly drift off to sleep. He knows that you aren’t supposed to let concussion victims nap, but figures that since John is here keeping watch, a nap might just do you good. He monitors your rate of respiration and finds them deep and even and recalls a time when he used to lie and listen to that same sound for hours on end. He clears his throat, as if to physically interrupt this train of thought then gives his head a quick shake in admonishment. He wasn’t supposed to care that you were fine, that you’d walk away from a potentially deadly situation. He wasn’t supposed to care that another man now lay next to you, listening to the sound of your breathing. He wasn’t supposed to care that he’d just seen the familiar curves of your body or the long chain you wore under your shirt. Caring, after all, was not an advantage.

He stands and buttons his suit jacket in front of him before stalking towards the door.

“I’ve got to go out,” he says to John. “You’ll keep an eye?” John squints at his friend for a few long seconds before nodding. Sherlock pulls his coat on and disappears from the flat.

__________________________________________________________________________

_ It’s spring and it’s the first really warm day on the season and Sherlock convinced you to take an extended study break and go for a long ride on the motorcycle. He’s driving and you are holding on behind him as the city disappears. It’s the most relaxed you’ve felt in ages and although your finals are looming over you, this break with Sherlock is well worth it. After a while, he slows and pulls into a car park and you both climb off and stretch your legs. You take off your helmet and looking around, you realize you are at the entrance to a public garden. _

_ “Come on,” he says softly, taking your hand. The two of you walk in silence down the path. The ground is still damp and the air is fully of an earthy smell and everywhere you look, plants are budding and leaves are sprouting. You think to yourself that you should remind Sherlock bring you back here when everything is in full bloom. The thought brings a smile to your lips and you glance over at him. He’s been busy lately, both with school and with providing his unique brand of input to the local authorities on certain cases. A few local precincts had even taken to hiring him on as a consultant and had begun paying him for his services. _

_ “I’ve got some rather big news,” he says, breaking the comfortable silence. You look at him, smiling, waiting with baited breath to hear what he has to share. “I’ve gotten a flat, here in London, at the end of the term.” You stop walking and gape at him. You are both graduating at the end of this school year and you had both avoided the matter of how this would affect your future as a couple. “I’d like you to move in with me,” he says and his voice is confident. You take him in, watching him watch you. His eyes are serious, his features awash in the cool overconfidence that you find infinitely sexy. _

_ “Sherlock,” you breathe, unable to contain your smile. _

_ “Wait, there is more,” he says, stopping you. He reaches into his pocket and when his hand reappears, he is holding a dainty diamond ring between his thumb and forefinger and you gasp. He doesn’t drop to his knee, but instead, he takes your left hand in his right and presses your fingertips to his lips. “I want to marry you.” It’s not a question but it’s so perfect that you can’t help the tears that begin to fall. _

_ “I want to marry you, too” you manage to get out. You can barely see through your tears as he slides the ring onto your finger. Sobbing, you hold it up to get a better look. It is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen and it looks stunning on your finger. “I love you,” you sniff and you throw your arms around his neck. _

_ “I love you,” he whispers into your hair and he holds you to him. “More than I even thought possible.”  _


	8. Chapter 8

It’s dark when you open your eyes again. John is sitting in the the plaid armchair, working on his laptop and Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. Rubbing your eyes, you sit up slowly.

“How are you feeling?” John asks, eyeing you critically from across the room.

“Like shit,” you laugh, “But no terrible post-concussion symptoms. Vision is clear, thoughts are clear, fine motor all intact, gross motor intact...”

“That’s good news, Doctor,” John smiles back. “I have the car, I can take you home when you’re ready.” You nod and slowly push yourself up off the couch. You are sore and stiff and you are moving like a 90 year old woman. You glance around the flat and want to know where Sherlock has gone off too, but your pride prohibits you from asking. You take it slow, out to the car, John hovering close in case you need him. Once you two are on the road he gives you a side-long glance and again, you know what’s coming.

“Just ask me,” you say and he takes his eyes off the road long enough to give you an apologetic glance.

“I thought I knew him so well. I thought I knew him better than anyone,” he explains, “And you show up and I realize there is so much I don’t know. I am just hoping you could help shed some light on why he is the way he is.”

“What do you mean,’the way he is?’” You ask, your head starting to ache.

“Closed off, distant...alone….” John replies.

“I don’t know him at all anymore,” you sigh. “I don’t know if I can explain the way he is now but I am sure it’s got something to do with me. Why don't you just ask me whatever you want ask me?”

“You stole his motorbike?” John asks and you can’t help but smile.

“Yes, sort of,” you explain. “I didn’t intend to… I just went for a ride but then I couldn’t go back. I haven't been back, until now.”

“Where did you go?”

“Far, far away,” you sigh, your head throbbing now. “I ended up finishing med school at St. George's…”

“In the Caribbean?” John asks, wide eyed.

“Yes, then I just hopped from island to island for the next few years, until I met Ethan…”

“Why did you leave?” he presses and you don’t answer right away. You stare out the window for a while, wondering why Sherlock never told John this story. It was his story, too and it wouldn’t be fair of her to share it without his permission.

“I hurt Sherlock,” you say at last, “And I wasn’t sure how to face him afterwards. I was such a coward, I was afraid of everything back then. Afraid of facing him, afraid of turning out like my mother, afraid that I deserved all the awful things that happened…” Your voice trails off and you realize you are still afraid. Afraid of what Ethan will think of you if you tell him the truth about Sherlock, afraid of what Sherlock thinks about you now, after all you’ve done. You swallow hard and wonder which aches worse, your battered heart or your battered body.

“One last question,” John asks as he pulls up in front of your building. You turn in your seat to face him, bracing yourself. “What kind of husband was Sherlock?”

“The best kind,” you answer and with that, you duck out of the car as quickly as your body will allow you to move, hoping that John won’t see the tears of hurt and shame now staining your cheeks.

******************************

  _“I don’t think your brother liked me,” you say as Sherlock crawls into the bed beside you. You are both staying in his boyhood room, at his parents home for a long weekend so that he could introduce you to his family._

_“It’s only because you weren’t smothered in gravy,” he replies and you cock your head at him, confused. “He used to have a bit of weight problem…” Sherlock explains and you can’t imagine it, Mycroft looked so fit and trim._

_“I loved your Mum and Dad though,” you sigh. “I hope you know how lucky you are to have such great parents.”_

_“I do,” he nods solemnly. “They’ll be yours now, too, you know.” He lifts the hand that bears your engagement ring and presses a kiss to the back of it. You nestle down next him and he curls one arm under his head and pulls you close with the other, leaving it draped over you._

_“Do you think they liked me?”_

_“They adore you already,” he murmurs. You smile as you drift off to sleep, thinking how lucky you are to be absorbed by the Holmes family._

_Your own family consists only of your mother, your father having killed himself when you were still a baby. Having to raise you alone was clearly too much for your mother and she spent the next 18 years recruiting a steady stream of fill-in-fathers to “help” her. She was a stunning beauty, and she never had to try very hard to find herself a suitor._

_However, these men only saw you as a burden, and soon, so did she. She was a young mother, still with plenty of life left in her and she wanted so much to be out living it, not trapped at home raising her daughter. By age 14 you could pretty much fend for yourself while she was out running around with the next available batchelor._

_Thankfully, as soon as you graduated, you enrolled in University in London, only returning home to burden your mother during school breaks. The last time you were home, however, live-in boyfriend number 306 slid his hand up your skirt while you were washing dishes one night._

_You practically screamed the house down but in the end, your mother said it was your own fault for wearing a skirt and accused you of trying to seduce her man._

_You hadn’t been back since and you had no plans on ever returning there. Ever._

_You hugged Sherlock tighter and tried to force the ugly memories from your brain, hoping that your new life as a Holmes would be filled with more pleasant, happier memories._


	9. Chapter 9

When Ethan returns from his trip, he is horrified by bumps and bruises covering your body and you two have your first fight over whether or not you are going to continue riding. He wants you to stop, saying how lucky you were to walk away from the accident with your very minor injuries. And although you understand his point, you can’t stand the thought of never riding a motorbike again.

“Why?” he demands, his eyes hurt and angry.

“I can’t explain it,” you say, resisting the urge to stomp your foot in frustration. “It’s a part of me.”

“It’s dangerous. You’re a doctor, you should know better,” he says. You know on some level he is right, but the fight drags on for the entire week he is home, neither of you willing to budge.

You are thankful for your work at John’s practice, as it is easier to focus on the problems of others than face your own. You enjoy seeing patients and doing this work makes you feel fulfilled in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time. 

You are staying late one night, catching up on a few things in your office when you hear familiar voices in front foyer.  You glance up through your office door and see John with Sherlock trailing behind him. Your heart jumps up to your throat and your mouth goes dry. You haven’t seen him since your crash and your remember that you still haven’t told him about the divorce papers. 

“Y/N, what are you still doing here?” John asks, glancing at his watch. 

“She is fighting with her fiance,” Sherlock answers for her and you shrug rather than answering. “Over whether or not she should continue riding her motorbike…”

“Thanks, Sherlock,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. He smiles that self satisfied smile and rocks back onto his heels then forward onto the balls of his feet. “What are you both doing here?”

“Going back through some old medical journals,” John explains. “It’s for a case.”

“You might as well make yourself useful,” Sherlock says. “Come on.” You must admit, you are curious about this business of solving cases that they have been engaging in for the past few years. You rise and follow them to John’s office.

“Here,” Sherlock says, thrusting a copy of the British Journal of Medicine and Medical Research at you. “We are looking for any documented correlation between acquired heterochromia iridum and von Willebrand Disease.” 

“Acquired heterochromia iridum?” you ask, wracking your brain, trying to think way back to med school. “Isn’t that when the iris of the eye changes color?”

“Precisely,” he says, not looking up from the article he is reading. You purse your lips and cock your head to the side before settling down with a stack of journals in a chair opposite the large desk. 

It’s quite, the only sound is that of pages being turned slowly as the three of you search the volumes in John’s office.

After a while, John excuses himself to a cafe a few doors down for three large coffees to aide in your research. He isn't gone long when you find exactly what you've been looking for. 

“Here,” you say, dropping it on Sherlock’s lap. You watch as he scans your article, then his eyebrows dart upwards and he’s off his chair and out into the hall.

“John! We’ve found it!” He calls out as you chase after him.

“Wait, wait, wait! He’s left to buy coffee, remember?”

“He did?” Sherlock asks, baffled. He shrugs it off and turns to leave. “Tell him I’ve gone to St. Bart’s,” he says, pulling on his coat. 

“Will do,” you reply.

“Oh, and Y/N?” he says, turning back to you. “Don’t give up something you love. If the bike makes you happy, ride the damn bike.” And then he’s gone, the book tucked under his arm, long legs carrying him out the door and down the sidewalk.

You feel as if you’d just been sideswiped by a tornado as you try to return to your office. John returns with the coffees and you update him on what you found and pass along Sherlock’s message that they meet at St. Bart’s.

“Feel up to solving a mystery tonight?” John asks. You blink at him.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you,” John says, smiling. “Keep in mind that it will be at a morgue and that you will be in the presence of a high functioning sociopath that is also your husband.” He’s teasing you and you can’t help but smile.

“I’d love to…” you say, realizing you actually would really love to, “But I need to go patch things up with Ethan before he leave tomorrow.”

“Right, well, see you in the morning, then!” he says, handing you one of the coffees and turning to leave. You follow him shortly after, locking the door and making for home. You pull out your phone and see that you’ve missed a text from Ethan. 

_**“West Ham is playing Man City tonight and a few of the guys are going to be down at the pub watching, I am going to join them. Don’t wait up.”** _

You actually stop in the middle of the sidewalk. Ethan is clearly still angry with you and it doesn’t seem as if he is ready to kiss and make-up just yet. You had hoped to resolve this disagreement before jetted off for work again. Your chest aches as you force yourself to start walking towards your flat, but the thought of being there alone, again, seems crushing. Suddenly, an idea hits you and you find yourself flagging down the next cab that you see.

“Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital, please,” you tell the driver.  You shoot Ethan back a quick text, informing him that you’re going to be working late on a special project with John and to have a safe trip, if you don’t see him. You are desperate for a distraction and you hope John and Sherlock can provide that for you tonight.


	10. 10

_ The first thing you notice when you open your eyes is the wedding band on Sherlock’s finger. He’s never been one of those men who wears rings or chains, limiting his accessorizing to a simple wrist watch. There is something strangely sexy about the simple gold band, something having to do with him being a husband now, your husband. You gently lay your hand down next to his on the pillow and are happy to see your plain gold band nestled against your diamond engagement ring. Your a wife now, his wife. _

_ It was a simple ceremony, attended only by Mycroft, and their parents and took place in the family's church. You have never felt so happy in your entire life. You could barely speak your vows to Sherlock, your throat was so tight with emotion. Afterwards, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, or “Mum and Dad” as they’d asked to be called, surprised you both with a weekend at the shore, in a sweet little cottage. You’d taken the motorcycle, making it a long, leisurely trip down and had arrived in the early evening. _

_ You giggle, thinking about how Sherlock had scooped you up and carried you over the threshold, laid you on the bed and made love to you until you were both physically and emotionally exhausted.  _

_ “Good morning, Mrs. Holmes,” he murmurs sleepily. You smile so wide your cheeks hurt. _

_ “Mrs. Holmes,” you repeat. “It seems surreal.” _

_ “It’s real,” he replies, stretching, “And you are really stuck with me forever.” _

_ “Perfect,” you reply. And it was. _

_ ***************************************************************************** _

 

The sun is coming up as you let yourself into your flat. Ethan is sitting, dressed in his suit, at the kitchen table, his carry-on sitting on the floor beside him. You lean against the door, exhaustion creeping up on you. You wait for him to speak first. 

“You were out all night working?” he asks. His tone isn’t accusatory, just curious.

“Sort of,” you sigh, thinking back to excitement of the previous night, all of which culmonated in Sherlock assisting Scotland Yard in an arrest. “I was helping out on a case…”

“With that detective your friend John works with?” he asks and you nod.  Even though Ethan has spent the last few years traveling, it’s hard for anyone to live in London and not know about Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

“Yes, Sherlock Holmes, the detective,” you nod.

“He’s supposed to be sort of an odd character, so I’ve heard,” Ethan replies.

“Yes, he is,” you reply, not meeting his eyes. “But he’s harmless.” Ethan sighs and runs his hands through his hair.

“Look, Y/N,” he says. “I’m not going to make you choose between your passion and my fears. I’ve never understood your obsession with motorcycles, but it’s who you are. I just don’t know if I can handle you risking your life like that.”

“Ethan,” you say, but he raises his hand to silence you.

“I’m heading to Montserrat. I will be back in a week. Let’s take some time to think about what it is we both want, OK?” He stands and picks up his bag and heads towards the door. You push yourself off of it and step aside. He pauses in front of you and bends, placing a gentle kiss to your cheek before he ducks out, shutting the door behind him.

You collapse into the same chair Ethan was sitting in and rest your head in your hands. You should just give up the stupid bike, say fuck it and move on with your life, with Ethan. But it’s about so much more than the motorcycle. How do you explain to him that giving up riding would be like giving up the last piece of yourself? How do you explain that when you are riding through the streets of London, you feel a freedom that you cannot replicate in any other way, that life’s stresses melt away with the scenery behind you… that it is the last connection to the life you rode away from on that very bike. 

Later that afternoon, your cell phone buzzes and it's a text from Sherlock.

**_\--Come outside_ **

You glance out the window down at the street and see him there, standing next to your bike, which looks good as new. You pull on your boots, grab your old beat up leather jacket and dash down the stairs. 

“Oh my god!” You exclaim, looking over your beloved motorbike. You glance over at Sherlock, still standing beside it with his hands clasped behind his back, looking more than pleased with himself.

“Have you decided that you are taking it back?” You tease and he shakes his head. “How did you get it fixed so quickly?”

“It really only had some minor damage,” Sherlock shrugged. “And the shop owner owed me a favor. Come on, let's take it for a spin.” You notice two brand new helmets strapped to the back and your pulse starts to race. 

“You drive,” you say quickly. “I'm … I'm not ready yet…” He studies you for a brief moment and then nods. You climb on behind him and gently place your hands on his waist. The motorcycle roars to life and a part of you does, too. You instinctively squeeze Sherlock tighter as he expertly urges the bike forward, out into traffic, and then, you're free. You marvel at how familiar it feels to clutching Sherlock, riding through the streets of London. It's as if no time has passed and you lose yourself in memories, made more vivid by the rushing of the wind and the hum of the engine. 

Finally, he pulls over near the Westminster Bridge and parks. You wander over to the railing and lean on the edge, still feeling the ghosts of your past all around you. A moment later, Sherlock is beside you, looking out over the river at The Parliament Building. You grip the railing tightly, bracing yourself for what you are about to do. 

“I started the divorce process,” you say at last. He doesn't answer right away and you can feel your heart breaking. It's been ten years, it shouldn't hurt this much. 

“Good,” he says at last, his eyes never straying from the river. You steal a sideways glance at him and feel anything but good.

“Ethan said we should take this week to figure out what we really want. I think he's going to make me choose between riding and him.” Sherlock makes a sort of grunting sound. 

“He won't,” he assures you. “He will realize what a twat he is being and he will apologize and you can keep riding and get married and have babies…” you wince at this last part but shake your head. 

“I'm not so sure,” you sigh.

“What do you really want?” Sherlock asks, finally turning to you. You look up at him and know that if you lie to him in this moment he will know it. 

“I don't know,” you admit. “I'm not sure if I’ve ever known…” The wind picks up and rustles your hair, blowing a few strands across your face. Sherlock reaches up with his long fingers and brushes them away, gently securing them back behind your ear. It's such an intimate gesture than you knees go weak and you look away. 

“That’s not true,” he says, quietly. “The girl I remember knew exactly what she wanted.” You purse your lips together thinking that it’s been awhile since you felt like that girl.

“I know I don't want to stop being me,” you reply at last. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes, I’ve thrived on change. But the bike has always remained. And riding that bike… is a big part of who I am.” Sherlock turns away and resumes his river watching. You lean your elbows on the railing and rest your chin in your hands. It's starting to get dark when he finally pushes himself away. You follow, heading back to the bike. 

“Your turn,” he says, tossing you the keys.

“No, no, I can't,” you say, catching them and immediately trying to hand them back.

“You have to start some time,” he replies, pulling on his helmet.” You take a deep breath and exhale slowly, pulling on your helmet and climbing on. Your hands are shaking and you open and close your fists and shake out your fingers a few times and try again. This time Sherlock reaches forward and places his hands over yours. He holds them there for a long moment and the weight of them calms your nerves just enough to stop the shaking. You start the engine and smile as muscle memory takes over and you head for home. All too soon, you are dropping him back at Baker Street. Standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, he stares at you for a few moments. You are so grateful to have your bike back

“I needed that,” you say, looking up at him. “Thank you. Thank you for getting the bike fixed, for the ride, for listening to me… for everything.”

“Of course,” he says, smiling at you. “You are my wife after all.”

“For now,” you tease back, narrowing your eyes at him playfully. 

“For now,” he repeats. He gives you a simple nod before turning and disappearing inside the flat. 


	11. 11

_ You spend your first summer as Mrs. Holmes assisting a local doctor with a small general practice. He can only give you a few hours a week, but you offset meager salary by waitressing several nights a week. That, combined with Sherlock’s earnings from his Consulting Detective services are more than enough to live on and you two are happy. _

_ You come home after a long day at work, having spent the morning at the GP’s office then the evening waitressing. Sherlock is working on something and has an explosion of paperwork tacked up on the wall. He is studying it so intently, he doesn’t even notice you’ve arrived. You smile to yourself and try not to disturb him. You set down your bag and hang your coat then move to the stack of mail you carried up, flipping through it when the phone on the wall rings. You glance at Sherlock and he shows absolutely no sign that he can even hear it,  but still, you move quickly and grab it. _

_ “Hello?” you speak quietly. _

_ “Y/N?” a vaguely familiar voice asks. _

_ “Yes, who is this?” _

_ “I’ve been trying for two days to get a hold of you! This is Aunt Diane!” You frown and wonder why Diane, your mother’s older sister, is ringing you so late at night. “I finally had to all the Dean’s office to get your new telephone number. It took the two days to find you, said you changed your name to Holmes?” You twist the phone cord around your finger as your frown deepens. _

_ “Yes, I…. I’ve gotten married…” _

_ “Married?!” Diane exclaims. “Would have been nice of you to let your poor mother know!” _

_ “Mother and I aren’t really speaking,” you explain. _

_ “Well not anymore, you’re not,” Diane sneers. “She died two days ago.” You feel the air rush from your lungs in one giant whoosh and you sink down to one of the kitchen chairs. _

_ “What? How?” you whisper, gripping the handset so tightly your knuckles are white. _

_ “She overdosed. Apparently she started doing heroin when Joel moved in…” You struggle to think if you remembered a Joel and you could not. “Anyway, he is long gone and the funeral is tomorrow...” you listen as Diane fills you in the details surrounding the funeral and burial, jotting down the information on a small note pad before hanging up. You glance at Sherlock and he hasn’t moved single muscle. You tear the paper from the note pad and head into the bedroom. You sit on the edge of the bed and wait for the tears to come. Except they don’t… or won’t. It is as if you are in a dream, where you know you should be feeling pain, but because it's a dream… you don’t. You pull out your small duffle bag from beneath your bed and begin filling it. _

_ Once you’ve packed, you slip from the room and cross the living room. Sherlock is still in his trance like state and you duck from the flat. You know you should tell him what has happened and where you are going, but you can’t bring yourself to even speak the words. Once outside, you hail a cab to the train station, wondering if and when you will finally cry over the loss of your mother. _

********************************

You have been working at John’s practice by yourself the past few days as he and Sherlock are caught up in something with Lestrade and Scotland Yard. It’s non-stop busy, seeing all the patients yourself, but you are grateful for the distraction. At the end of the day, you are wiped out and getting ready to leave when the office line rings. You answer it and are happy to hear John.

“Glad I caught you,” he says. “How was today? Not too awful I hope?”

“Busy, but in a good way,” you smile, glancing at the stack of charting you will have to complete tomorrow.

“Good. Listen, I have been instructed by the Lady of the House that we have all been working too much. She’s inviting you over for dinner--” You hear a woman’s voice in the background and John gives a little cough. “WE… we are inviting you over for dinner.” A smile crosses your lips and you think that would be exactly what you need tonight.

“Great, I’d love to,” you reply. “What can I bring?”

“Dinner!” John laughs. “I will call and pay for it, can you pick it up on your way?” The voice in the background is speaking and then John adds, “And some wine.” 

“Perfect, see you soon,” you say, hanging up and grabbing your coat and purse.

A short while later, you are juggling the bag of take-out and the bottle of wine as you wait on the doorstep of John and Mary’s town house. Mary opens the door, balancing sweet baby Rosie on her hip. 

“Thanks for picking up dinner!” she smiles, welcoming you in. As you hang your coat on the rack in the entryway, you couldn’t help notice a familiar, long, grey coat. Your pulse quickened a bit, as it always did when Sherlock was around. 

“Y/N’s here!” Mary calls into the livingroom. “She’s brought wine and food and she’s my new favorite person!” 

You all sit down to eat and Sherlock takes the chair to your right. It’s a little strange, sitting so near to him, sharing a meal together after so much time apart. You pour yourself a healthy glass of wine, needing a drink after a long day and an even longer week. After few gulps, you begin to relax. Conversation flows easily around you, the three of them impossibly close to one another. You join in easily and even after all the food was gone, the four of you stayed seated around the table while John and Sherlock recount their latest case. You watch Sherlock as he talks. You are fascinated with him, with how his mind works and you hang on his every word, as if no time has passed.

You end up staying way later and drinking much more than you intended to. As you finish helping Mary tidy up, Sherlock excuses himself, donning his coat and bidding everyone a good-evening. 

“I’ll be off as well,” you say, suppressing a yawn. “Thanks for a wonderful night.” Mary hugs you and informs you that you are welcome any time. Pulling on your coat, you say a final goodnight to the Watsons and let yourself out. You are surprised to see Sherlock standing on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette.

“Caught you,” you giggle. A long lost craving stirs inside you and you hold out your hand. “May I?” Raising an eyebrow, he takes one last drag and hand you the cigarette wordlessly. You hold it to your lips and draw in slowly. You had quit smoking years ago, after a med school rotation on a cancer treatment unit, having watched the awful suffering endured by patient after patient with lung cancer. It has been years since you’ve had a cigarette and the nicotine hits your bloodstream like a truck. You feel your limbs begin to tingle and you hand it back to Sherlock as you exhale the plume of smoke into the cold night air. You wait as he finishes it and stubs it out. 

The two of you fall into step silently beside each other and it is a comfortable way to walk home. You’d left your bike at the office and grabbed a cab to John’s house, knowing there was a strong possibility that you wouldn’t be sober enough to drive it home tonight. Since the Watsons only lived a few minutes walk from Baker Street, you planned to catch the tube there and head back home.

You are still a good ways from the underground when you feel the first rain drop. 

“Shit,” you swear and Sherlock chuckles but you both pick up your pace. The size and frequency of the rain drops quickly increase and you tuck your chin against the cold, wet night.

Soon, it's pouring and you are practically running to keep up with Sherlock's long strides. You push your wet hair off your forehead and pull your coat tighter around you. You round the corner onto Baker Street and you look reach for your purse to pull out money for your ticket when you realize you don’t have your purse.

“Damn it,” you groan. “I left my bag at John’s.”

“Come on,” Sherlock calls over his shoulder, crossing the street towards his flat. “Come in and dry off for a bit.” You weigh the option of being alone with Sherlock in his flat against the option of running all the way back to John’s. The thought of a nice fire in the cozy living room warms you in spite it’s of the miserable weather. With a heavy sigh, you follow him across the street.


	12. 12

_ You’re standing in a room full of people, next to your Aunt Diane, who is clutching onto her husband and intermittently sobbing into the crumpled, soggy tissue in her hand. A few feet away, your mother rests in her casket. When you arrived at the funeral parlor earlier this morning, they had allowed you to view her remains and you had fought with your Aunt about whether or not the casket should be closed.  _

_ You had insisted that it be shut, that this wasted, skinny, barely recognizable woman be hidden away from all the prying eyes. Her drug habit had stolen her beauty and her youth and she looked like a shell of her former self. You watched as they lowered the lid over her, your heart aching, but still no tears would come. _

_ You greeted each person as they came up to pay their respects and offer condolences, thanking them for coming and for their kind words and still no tears would come. You wondered if something inside of you was broken. You wondered if you would cry again. _

_ “Miss Y/L/N?” a voice asked, snapping you out of your sad thoughts. You look up and see a kind looking older man in front of you. _

_ “It’s Mrs. Holmes, now, actually,” your Aunt corrects and you just nod. _

_ “Is there somewhere we can talk?” he asks, quietly and you get the distinct feeling he doesn't want your aunt to hear. You nod and lead him towards the back of the room, away from everyone else. _

_ “I am David Deering. I am the solicitor handling your mother’s estate,” he explains and you nod, showing you understand and that you are following. “Your father had taken out a large life insurance policy on both he and your mother before he died. Unfortunately, his policy was null and void because he ended his own life…” he pauses and frowns uncomfortably before continuing. “Your mother’s however, remains intact and is payable to you upon her death. It’s quite ample and will more than cover the cost of her burial, with enough left over to help you with tuition. I understand you are in Med School?” Again, you simply nod. “Here is my card, call the office to set up an appointment once you’ve gotten all her affairs settled.” _

_ “Thank you,” you say, speaking at last. You take the card and he leaves as you rejoin your aunt and uncle. _

_ “What did he want?” she asks, eying you suspiciously.  _

_ “Old boyfriend,” you shrug and you can tell she isn’t buying it. You feel sick, thinking about money while the wasted corpse of your mother rests in a box behind you. Your head starts to spin and you feel as if you can’t breath. On shaking legs, you dart from the stuffy parlor room out the the car park. You gasp for air, choking on deep breaths and you know you are about to pass out. Sinking down to the sidewalk, you bring your arms to rest on your bent knees and bury your face in them. And finally, the tears come. Bitter, wracking sobs that shake your whole body.  _

_ You sense someone come to sit beside you and then, you feel a hand on your back, rubbing slow, comforting circles there. You glance up and are stunned to see Sherlock sitting next you. _

_ “Sherlock,” you choke, “What are you doing here?” He looks confused and hurt but pulls you into his lap. _

_ “Where else would I be?” he asks and you wrap your arms around his neck and let him hold you while you fall to pieces. _

************************************************************************************************

You duck inside the familiar foyer, soaked and panting slightly. You feel a bit nervous, wondering what the one on one dynamic with him will be like and you pray that it’s not too awkward or painful.

You both shuck off your wet coats and hang them in the hall to drip dry. Still drenched, Sherlock sets about starting a fire in the hearth and you stand just inside the door, shifting your weight from one soggy foot to the other. Once it is started, he stands and turns back to you.

“Wait here,” he says, disappearing into his bedroom. You listen to the sound of the fire starting to grow, making little snapping and popping sounds. A few moments later, Sherlock reappears, now dressed in a dry pants and a t shirt, holding a towel and a dark blue robe.

“You can dry off and put this on,” he says, handing you the items. “If it won’t make you too uncomfortable.” At that moment you are so grateful at the prospect of getting out your wet clothes that you take both the towel and the dressing gown and lock yourself in the bathroom. You peel off the drenched items and towel off your hair and body. You pick up Sherlock’s robe and slip it on, the soft material caressing your bare skin. It smells like him and you inhale the decidedly masculine scent. The smell triggers something in your brain and it’s as if you’ve been transported back in time. 

Sherlock moving above you, your hands sliding down his muscular back, his skin slick with sweat. Sherlock spinning you around the small living room of your flat, dancing with you for no reason on a gray and damp Saturday afternoon. Sherlock holding you tightly as you cry at your mother’s funeral. It’s passion, joy and comfort all at once, all rolled up in one familiar scent. Your heart is racing as you toss the towel over the shower curtain bar and scooping up your clothes, you struggle to regain your composure. You’ve read studies that claim the strongest memories are tied to scent and you wonder if the strongest emotions are too... if scent-memory is powerful enough to awaken long buried feelings. 

You exit the bathroom and see Sherlock in the kitchen, putting the kettle on. He looks so casual and you cannot help but notice how snugly the sleeves of his shirt hug his biceps, how the trousers hang off his hips as he stands there in his bare feet. Suddenly, you realize that maybe the feelings that have been re-ignited inside you weren’t as deeply buried as you want to believe. You wonder if he would still make you feel as incredible as he did all those years ago.

You shake your head, trying it clear it of your lusty thoughts as you drape your wet clothes over the screen in front of the fire. Between Ethan’s trips, his jet lag and your disagreement, it’s been a long time since you’ve had sex and you suddenly feel incredibly… frustrated.

You turn towards the window and look down at Baker Street. It is still pouring out and not a soul is visible. You hear the screeching of the kettle and smile. Sherlock is turning out to be a very thoughtful host. 

You move to the sofa and curl up, tucking your legs beneath you and arranging the edges of the robe so that your modesty is preserved. Your body is humming and you are suddenly acutely aware that you are totally nude underneath your borrowed robe. You cinch the belt of the robe tighter as Sherlock reappears with a tea tray. 

“Thanks again,” you say, reaching to fix yourself a cup of hot tea. “You really didn't have to go to the trouble.” 

“No trouble at all,” he replied simply as he poured himself some tea. “I doubt the rain will let up anytime soon. Stay as long as you like.” You hide your smile with your teacup. 

The two of you sit in a comfortable silence for a bit, warming up and listening to the fire crackling in the hearth and the heavy rain drops pelting the window panes. 

You stand and set your empty cup on the tray and head towards the bookshelves. Your eyes scan what you quickly determine to be the most random and eclectic collections of literary works known to man. Law, criminology, botany, police manuals, historical biographies, music scores, anatomy and physiology, beekeeping… your fingertips land on a book about the trial of Mary Ann Cotton. 

“Oh a good choice,” Sherlock says approvingly. “Victorian serial killer convicted and hanged for the murder. It is likely that she murdered three of her four husbands and possibly 11 of her 13 children.” 

“Don't spoil it for me,” you gripe, returning to the couch. You perch there in the same manner as before and open the book. You have only read the first few paragraphs when you feel Sherlock’s eyes on you. “What?” You ask automatically. He looks at you, eyes narrowed and lips pursed for a moment before answering. 

“Does he ask about them?” he says at last. As usual, you brain feels as if it is two steps behind his.

“Does who ask about what?” You ask, letting out a frustrated sigh. Instead of answering, he stands and crosses the room. Balancing a hand on the arm of the sofa, he leans down towards you. He brings his other hand up, slowly, and you are frozen in place as it gently slips inside your robe, just below your throat. Your eyes are fixed on his as soft fingertips graze your skin and curl around the necklace that you always wear. Your heart is hammering in your chest as he gently tugs it loose and holds the two rings that you’ve kept strung on the chain in palm of his hand.

“Does your fiance...ever ask about the wedding rings...you wear so close to your heart,” he replies.

“No,” you croak, your voice betraying you. “I think he assumes they were my mother’s. He’s never asked…”

“...and you’ve never told,” Sherlock says and he his so near to you now that his deep voice is reverberating inside your chest. You shake your head and Sherlock drops the rings and they fall back against the soft fabric of the robe. You pray that he doesn't ask you why, after all these years, after all the distance and all the hurt, do you still wear them. You have no answer for him, you aren’t even sure why you’ve kept them all this time. He leans in closer, his lips so close to yours you can feel his breath on your skin.

“Don’t,” you whisper, your voice devoid of conviction, “I’m engaged.”

“No. You’re married. To me,” he growls and his lips are on yours. It’s familiar and foreign all at once and your hands move to his dark curls and you feel them slipping through your fingers and it’s as if not a single day has passed. 

He’s pulling you up, off the couch, his long arms encircling you and you are moving towards his room, all the while never breaking the kiss. He kicks his door shut behind him and tugs at the sash of your borrowed robe. His hands slip inside and are roaming over your body as if you’ve never stopped being his.

Your hands are moving, too. Tugging his shirt up and off, reaching for the button on his pants and undoing it. You can’t believe this is happening, that you are allowing it to happen. You can’t believe how much you want this. His lips graze over your throat and you feel the edge of the mattress hit the back of your legs. You remember everything about making love to him and yet, this is so new that you know nothing of making love to him. Even though so much has changed for both of you, one thing has remained constant through the passing of time: Being with Sherlock is still fast, hot, freeing and dangerous.


	13. Chapter 13

_ He never asks why you left without him and you never ask how he found you. Instead, he asks if you are alright or if there is anything he can do? He stands beside you as they lower your mother’s coffin into the earth, his arm looped around your waist, holding you up, holding you close. _

_ He offers to accompany you to the solicitor’s and assists you with all the duties surrounding her estate. Once all the most important loose ends are tied up, he insists that the rest can be done over the phone and through the mail, sensing that you need to leave this place as quickly as possible. _

_ When you ask him to take you back to his parent’s home, rather than returning to London, he looks at you for several long moments before nodding and pulling you against him. _

_ You need to be home and spending time with the Holmes’, even Mycroft, is the closest thing you have to a home. You spend the first two full days in bed and you can hear Sherlock speaking worriedly to his mum and you can hear her gently reassuring him that you just need time. Time, rest and love.  _

_ That week with them is filled with nothing else. _

_ Back at home in London, Med School is starting soon and you are grateful for the grueling hours and endless studying, as they provide a distraction from the tragedy you’ve suffered. _

_ One night, you close your books for a short study break and rub your eyes, stretching your neck and rolling the stiffness from your shoulders. You wander from the bedroom out into the living room and Sherlock smiles when he sees you. _

_ “I need a break,” you sigh, flopping down on the couch next to him. “Play for me?” Sherlock glances at his watch.  _

_ “It’s late, it might disturb the neighbors,” he warns, but he is standing and moving towards the corner of the room where his violin sits next to a stand with sheet music. _

_ “Play something quiet and short then,” you smile. You slide down until your head is nestled on the armrest of the couch and shut your eyes as Sherlock starts to play. _

_ It’s one of your favorites, but you don’t know the name, you can never keep them straight. The music washes over you and you think hard, trying to remember if you could remember a time where your parents where this happy together and eventually, you give up. Instead, you try to imagine the music floating out of the violin swirling around the room. _

_ Even the neighbors must have enjoyed that particular song, as no one pounded on the walls. Sherlock finishes and tucks the instrument away. You rise to meet him, placing a grateful kiss on his lips before disappearing to the backroom to resume your studies. _

_ Sherlock watches you go, his insides twisting up in a knot. These past few weeks have been hard on him, watching you wrestle with your grief over losing your mother. One moment, you seem fine, the next, you are falling apart. He can’t predict what will set you off and he feels such a sense of loss at what to do for you.  He longs to make you happy, to see your playful smile and hear your hearty laugh. The lack of control and inability to fix this for you frustrates him to no end.  _

_ He should be better at this, he feels you deserve better. Anxiety and panic have taken up residence in his brain, taunting him and he knows only one way to quiet them down. _

***********************************************************************************************

Sherlock is lying on his back in bed, one elbow tucked beneath his head, the other draped around your shoulder while your head rests on his chest. His eyes are closed and all you can hear is the slow, even, rhythmic sound of his breathing. You are feeling so many things all at once and you are struggling to process them.

“How are you so calm and relaxed?” you ask, glaring up at him. He smirks, but doesn’t open his eyes.

“Do you want me to answer that?” he asks, his deep voice rumbling in his chest beneath your ear.

“I can’t believe I did this,” you say, squeezing your eyes shut. “I am a terrible person.”

“Stop it,” he commands, his tone betraying a hint of irritation that you don’t particularly enjoy. You roll away from him and slip from the bed, searching for your clothes and remembering they are soaking wet, drying in front of the fire. 

“Damn it,” you swear, reaching instead for the robe you’d be wearing before Sherlock had stripped it off you. With a heavy sigh, Sherlock sits up and reaches for his pants, pulling them on and fastening them before turning to you.

“You’re feeling guilty,” he states and you gape at him.

“Uh… yeah… I am engaged and we just…” you gesture stupidly at the bed and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“No, you feel guilty because you  **_don’t_ ** feel guilty about--” he stops and mimics you, gesturing at the bed as well.

“You don’t know me as well as you think you do,” you say, folding your arms over your chest.

“Yes, I do,” he says arrogantly. “You met him at a bar, where you were working as a bartender in…” he pauses for a second and squints at you, “Anguilla,” he guesses correctly. “He travels a lot, for work, but suddenly, his work started taking him back to Anguilla more often. Then he is returning between trips, on his time off, just to see you. It’s serious now and you two have a serious talk about the future. He asks you to move to London, you say no. He asks again. You say no. He asks a third time, begging you, telling you he wants to be with you forever, to start a life with you, and finally, you say yes. You are finally ready to come home, with him. You are ready to be a wife again.”

“You’re wrong,” you bite out, glaring at him. He raises a disbelieving eyebrow. “He only had to ask twice.” You turn and storm from the room and head for the hearth, ready to gather your clothes, dry or not and head home in the rain.

Sherlock follows and grabs your wrist, spinning you back around to face him, an amused smile playing on his lips. He is gripping you tightly and he tugs, causing you to stumble towards him.

“You should feel bad about this,” he says, “But you don’t. Why?” You don’t answer, because you don’t know. “Because we have a history. Because we were special. Because you have never stopped wanting me.”

“How do you know?” you reply, your voice barely a whisper.

“Because I have never stopped wanting you…” he answers and he is kissing you again.

“We can’t do this…” you protest weakly as his lips leaves yours and travel along your jaw line towards your ear.

“We can,” he whispers. “And we will…” He is still gripping your wrist, pulling you back towards the bedroom and you don’t resist. You don’t resist because he is right; you have never, ever stopped wanting him.

“Just until the divorce is finalized,” you say as he crawls across the bed towards you.

“Fine,” he says, lowering himself down against you. And somehow, knowing this is temporary, with an end date, makes you feel like less of an unfaithful piece of shit.


	14. 14

_ It’s been two days and there has not been a word from Sherlock. You are sick to your stomach, pacing back and forth, debating whether you should call the police or just wait.  _

_ He does this; disappears without a word, especially when he is working on a particularly difficult or interesting case, but he has never been gone this long. _

_ At long last, you hear voices and footsteps in the hallway. You rush to the door and pull it open. Sherlock and Mycroft are standing there. Mycroft is wearing an expression that is a cross between disgust and annoyance and Sherlock’s expression his pure shame. _

_ “What happened?” you ask, your heart jumping in your throat. _

_ “Your dear husband--” Mycroft starts. _

_ “Mycroft, do shut up,” Sherlock says, pushing past you into the flat. _

_ “--Fell off the proverbial wagon,” he continues, ignoring Sherlock. _

_ “Wagon?” you ask, baffled. Mycroft smiles tightly. _

_ “Does she not know? Tsk tsk, Sherlock,” he says. _

_ “Know what?” you spin, facing Sherlock. _

_ “Drugs, my dear,” Mycroft supplies. “He’s just come off the longest sober stint I can recall.” _

_ “What did you do?” you ask, shocked and horrified. Mycroft hands you a slip of paper.  You read it and your eyes go wide. “You took all this?” You look back up at Sherlock and he can’t meet your eyes. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” you whisper, your hands shaking. _

_ “What? That I am an addict?” Sherlock scoffs.  _

_ “I will leave you two to your discussion,” Mycroft says, excusing himself. Neither you or Sherlock acknowledge his departure. _

_ “Please, talk to me,” you beg. “Let me help you.” _

_ “I don’t need help, just sleep,” he says and he brushes past you towards the bedroom and you let him go, too stunned and scared to do anything more.  _

******************************************************************************

When you wake up the next morning, the rain has stopped and your clothes are dry. You dress quickly while Sherlock watches on, wordlessly. When you are ready, he stands and crosses the room and carefully tucks your necklace with your wedding rings back inside your shirt. You place your hands on his chest and force yourself to look up at him.

“This doesn’t have to be complicated,” he says. “It’s just sex.”

“Just sex. Just until we are officially divorced,” you say again, in case he had any doubts that you didn’t mean it last night. He nods once. “Then I am marrying Ethan.”

“It’s a deal,” he answers. When it’s time to go, he gives you money for cab fare since you still didn't have your purse and watches you leave. After you’ve climbed into a cab, he wanders over to the mantle and picks up a small tin that had once held candy of some sort and he opened it. He plucked out a white handkerchief and gently unfolded it and there, in the center, was a gold wedding band. He’d worn for a long time after you had left him and even though he had eventually removed it and hidden it in this tin, he wore it still.

He gazed down at it for several long moments before quickly bundling it back up and placing it back in the tin and the tin back on the shelf. 

 

You shower the second you get home, needing to wash him away, wash your indiscretion away. You love Ethan, he is good for you, Ethan is your future. Sherlock was a great, big part of your life, but he is your past. You need to make sure he stays there.

You try to forget the night you shared with him, but you are having difficulty thinking of much else. You are so lost in your thoughts and memories that you don’t realize Ethan is home until the door shuts loudly behind him. You actually jump, startled back to reality. You clap your hand over your heart and glance up as he walks into the living room.

He is clutching the biggest bouquet of flowers you have ever seen and he crosses the room quickly and sinks down in front of where you are seated on the couch.

“I am so sorry, Y/N,” he says, his features full of remorse. “I was an ass hole. You are amazing and perfect and wonderful and all I want is to be married to you, nothing will change that. Nothing. I don’t want you to give up a single thing for me.” You blink at him, a cold slab of guilt sliding of your heart. “Forgive me?”

“Of course,” you whisper, taking the flowers and leaning forward to kiss him.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, pulling away and pressing his forehead to yours. 

“Ethan…” you murmur, feeling ill. He reaches for you, but you stiffen and he senses your hesitance. 

“I’m sorry,Y/N,” he says again.

“It’s fine, really,” you reply, standing and making yourself busy putting the flowers into a vase. The thought of making love to Ethan when you can still feel Sherlock's hands burned onto your flesh is too much to bear. Luckily, he assumes you still are ticked off at him and he doesn’t push the issue.

Instead, the two of you settle on the couch and watch a movie, cuddled up under a blanket. You are so relieved he has decided to let the bike crash go and he is so relieved to be home with you that it ends up being a nice compromise.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Ethan says much later, as the two of you slide into bed.  He reaches over and switches off the bedside lamp before resting his head on the pillow beside yours.

“What's that?”you yawn.

“Do you want to get a new wedding band?” he asks and your heart stops beating for a moment.

“What do you mean?” you ask, trying to keep the panic from your voice.

“Well,I was thinking, maybe we could have the set on the necklace custom made into something for you. Something old, something new, you know? I know they are important to you.” You are quiet for a long time, trying to figure out how you are going to respond.

“That is so sweet, baby,” you say at last. “But I think I want something new, something that is just me and you.”

“That’s fine, too,” he replies. “As long as you are happy.”

“I am happy,” you assure him, as well as yourself. “I am happy.”

 


	15. 15

You spend the week that Ethan is home avoiding Sherlock, but he is never far from your thoughts. You turn down John and Mary’s invites to dinner, explaining that you want to spend time with Ethan before he jets off again and you can imagine them innocently passing this information along to Sherlock. You wonder how he reacts. Is he jealous? Does he care? Does it bother him?

You send Ethan off the following week, telling him you will see him in six days and head into work. You let yourself in and collect the mail from where it has fallen onto the floor from the slot in the door. You sort through it and pause at a letter addressed to you. You glance up at the sender’s information and realize it’s from your divorce attorney and you remember you had changed your mailing address to the office so that Ethan wouldn’t accidently stumble across it. You slide your finger under the flap and rip it open. There is a list of documents needed to proceed and you read down it. Your birth certificate,Sherlock’s birth certificate, your marriage licenses, birth certificates of any children…

You set the letter down, that ache returning to your chest and it’s hard to breathe. You leave the mail on the desk half sorted and reach for your phone.

**\--Are you free for a lunch?** you text Sherlock. Only a few moments pass before the phone buzzes in your hand.

**_Sherlock: Eat in or take out?_ **

\-- **Up to you.**

**_Sherlock: Meet me at Baker Street at noon_ **

\-- **I only have an hour**

**_Sherlock: That’s all we will need_ **

 

You are panting as you brush a bead of sweat from you eyes and rest your forehead against Sherlock’s bare shoulder. Still balanced on his lap, you are waiting for your heart rate to slow and for your body to come back down to earth after what the two of you just did.

He leans back against the headboard of his bed, trying to catch his own breath. Finally moving, you untangle yourself from him and grab the sheet, wrapping it around you before resting your head on the pillow for a moment. You have to get cleaned up, dressed and head back to work, but you don’t want to leave. You want to stay wrapped up with Sherlock and satisfy all the cravings you’ve been experiencing this past week.

“Is this what it’s like?” you ask. 

“What’s that?” he asks, shifting down in bed so that he is laying next to you.

“Being addicted, getting high,” you reply. He reaches up and traces a finger over your shoulder and down your arm, goosebumps rising in its wake.

“This…” he whispers, “Is the closest thing I have ever felt to being addicted and getting high that wasn't brought on by drugs. This...might even be better.” Without thinking, you reach for his arm and turn it over. You can see pale white marks, but nothing even remotely new and relief floods your veins.

“I always worry about you. I always wonder...” you stop, suddenly feeling tears spring to your eyes. You drop his arm and roll away. “I have to get back to work,” you say, pulling on your clothes.”I have a one o’clock lined up…”

“Come back tonight?” he asks from the bed.

“I shouldn’t,” you reply.

“But you’re a junkie now,” he teases, his deep voice taking on a rare, playful tone.

“What if I am getting clean?” you counter.

“We addicts can never stay clean for long,” he says and you both know you will be back tonight.

You slip from the bedroom, pausing in the kitchen to grab a glass of water. You reach into the cupboard for a cup and you see, peeking out from a stack of mail on the countertop, the same envelope you received from your solicitor's office today. You lift it out and hold it in your hands. Suddenly, you are overcome with the urge to shove it in your pocket but you pause when you hear footsteps on the stairs. The door to the flat opens and John appears and he is clearly surprised to see you. You drop the envelope and it flutters back to the counter.

“Hey John,” you say and you cringe at how anxious and uncomfortable your voice sounds. “I just stopped by for a quick lunch, I and dashing back now, I have Mrs. Hobbelman coming in at 1:00…” you glance at your watch and grimace. “Gotta run. See you soon!” And with that, you flee from the flat.

 

Moments later, Sherlock emerges from the bedroom, buttoning the last few buttons on his shirt. 

“Lunch with Y/N?” John asks him, amused.

“Yup,” he replies. 

“Still married, then?”

“For the time being, it would appear,” Sherlock says nonchalantly. 

“Has a date been set for the divorce hearing?” John asks.

“It could take up to six months, depending on how quickly we can get all our paperwork in,” he explains. 

“Must be hard, having her back in your life, under these conditions,” John says carefully, trying to bait his friend.

“On the contrary,” Sherlock disagrees, “I am quite enjoying our little...reunion.” John sighs and gives up, deciding it is clear his friend isn’t going to give him any insight into what is going on with him and his soon to be ex-wife.

“Right, then, shall we go? Molly and Lestrade are waiting…” Sherlock nods and follows his friend from the flat, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he thinks about how true his earlier statement about enjoying the reunion really is.

******************************************************************************************

_ It’s been three days since Mycroft dragged your husband home from whatever drug den he’d been holed up in. You have been wrestling with your emotions, trying to figure out what this means to you, to your marriage. _

_ According to Mycroft, this has been something Sherlock had struggled with for a while, yet, you had no idea. You vacillate from being angry at him for doing this to being angry at yourself for somehow pushing him back into his old ways. _

_ You’ve spent the last few days avoiding him, still not certain how you feel and therefore, still uncertain about what it is you need to say to him. You need to get your head straight so you blow off your psychology class and take your motorbike out for a long ride. You lose yourself in the roar of the engine, in the shifting, leaning into the corners, racing past cars and pedestrians.  _

_ When you finally return home, you know what you need to say to Sherlock. You let yourself in and set your helmet on the table. Sherlock appears in the doorway of the living room and you lock eyes for the first time in days. He looks terrible, but it’s not from his bender; it’s the shame and the fear.  _

_ “Sherlock…” you sigh. “I love you. No matter what. I am here for you, no matter what.” He looks away from you and shakes his head wearily. _

_ “I am decidedly undeserving of both of those sentiments,” he relies bitterly. _

_ “You aren’t,” you assure him, taking a step forward. “I want to help you. We can figure this out.” You reach for him and he flinches away. _

_ “I don’t want your compassion!” he cries. “I want you to be angry at me.”  _

_ “I am angry,” you say, quietly. “I am so fucking pissed at you.” _

_ “Then yell, scream, walk out on me! Do something other than being this whole unconditional love act!” he shouts. _

_ “Sherlock,” you croke, closing the distance between you and him. “That isn’t us. We don’t do that. You should have been furious that I left for my mother’s funeral without telling you. But you weren’t. You stayed by me and never said a word. I am going to do the same. I am going to be by your side because… where else would I be?” He reaches for you and you wrap your arms around him as he buries his face in your neck. _

_ “I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice breaking. You stroke his hair, and hold him. You don’t tell him it’s ok, because it’s not. You just let him squeeze you to him and whisper that you love him and that you’re not going anywhere. _


	16. Ch 16

You are surprised to find Sherlock waiting for you when you lock up the office for the night. Wordlessly, you flip him the keys to the motorcycle and he grins before pulling the helmet over his unruly curls. 

He takes the long way back to Baker Street and you are happy for an excuse to hold onto him. At the light before he takes the turn onto his street, he removes his hand from the clutch and reaches down, placing a hand on your knee and giving it a gentle squeeze. You rest your helmet against his back and wonder what in the hell you are doing. This is more than just sex, more than an arrangement, more than an old habit hard to break. You never stopped loving him, all those years away, all thoughts nights apart.

You have never been unfaithful to a single man you’ve been with, the very thought had never crossed your mind. Yet, here you were, engaged to a man you cared for deeply, still wearing the wedding bands from a marriage you couldn’t seem to end. You squeeze your eyes shut as the light turns green and Sherlock accelerates towards home.

He pulls up in front of the flat and parks your bike. You hesitate on the sidewalk and he can see the conflict raging behind your eyes.

“You don’t have to come up if you don’t want to,” he says and suddenly and you catch a flash of the patient, loving man that was your husband. He clears his throat and turns away, as if he just realized he’d allowed his mask to slip.

“I shouldn’t. But I really want to,” you sniff, “And I hate that about myself.” He slowly turns back to face you and his expression is sad.

“I don’t want you to hate yourself,” he says, quietly. “But I would like you to come up.”

“Ok,” you say softly, nodding slightly and you notice the corners of his lips twitch upward. He surprises you by reaching for your hand and you surprise yourself by taking it. He lets you inside and you follow him to his room.

Earlier that afternoon, when you’d been pressed for time, your encounter had been rushed, frantic and feverish. This time, Sherlock takes his time with you, slowly removing your clothes, his gentle hands moving lazily over your body. He carefully whispers your name, as if trying it back on for size, surprised to find that it still fits after all these years. His name falls from your lips like a poem you’d thought you’d long since forgotten.

The two of you move together in sync, the way that only practiced lovers can. You pepper his throat, his jaw, his shoulders and cheeks with soft kisses and when ever your mouth nears his, Sherlock's lips capture yours hungrily.

The painfully slow pace Sherlock has set is getting harder and harder to tolerate. Your body is begging for more and you silently plead with him for release by arching your back and raising your hips to meet his. He doesn’t miss a beat, increasing his speed, his kisses becoming more demanding as he slides his hand down your thigh to your knee, hooking your leg up over his hip. You are so close and you can tell he is now, too. He says your name again and his voice sounds almost pained. You close your eyes and lose yourself in the feeling of your undoing as Sherlock follows not far behind.

He collapses on the bed next to you and you can’t help but smile as you watch him come back down to earth. He shifts so that he is laying on his side and he looks over at you. Your heart hitches in your chest and you reach out and lightly trail your fingers across his cheek. He has only grown more handsome in your time apart and you wish you were brave enough to tell him so. He offers you a small smile and reaches down to tug the blankets up around you. You glance at the clock and frown.

“I should go,” you whisper. “Ethan will be home in the morning.” You force yourself to meet his gaze and you think that if he asks you to just stay with him that you would. Instead, he gives a small nod and you swallow down regret and disappointment, rolling from the bed and tugging on your clothes. He dresses as well and walks you to the door, tenderly kissing you good-bye. 

Tiredly, you point the motorcycle in the direction of your home and when you arrived, you are shocked to find Ethan back, several hours early and curse yourself for being so stupid. Had you spent the night at Sherlock’s you most certainly would have raised his suspicions when you never returned home. He’s tired and jet lagged, but he can see that something’s off with you.

“Just a hard day at work,” you lie, something you’ve gotten quite good at. “I had to give someone some hard news…” Ethan’s frowns sympathetically and pulls you into a hug. You panic, worrying that you smell like you’ve just spent time in another man’s arms. “Sometimes, I feel like a terrible person…” you say and that, for once, is the truth, though not for the same reasons Ethan thinks. You try to pull away, but he only hugs you tighter.You can still feel Sherlock’s hands on your skin and taste his kisses on your lips. You feel worse than horrible.

“You’re a doctor,” he says, trying to comfort you. “Hard news is part of the job. But because you’re a great doctor, I am sure you delivered it compassionately and that you will give your patient the very best care.” 

“I have to tell you something…” you sniff, deciding that you are going to come clean and accept the consequences.

“So do I…” Ethan says, pulling away. When you meet his eyes, he is smiling broadly. “I got promoted!”

“Did DeSilva retire?” you ask, astonished.

“No, not yet. They created a position for me! Vice President of Asian Acquisitions!” 

“Asia…” you repeat. “But I thought we were settling down here?”

“We are,” he presses on excitedly. “It just means a little more travel, just for another few years. But the money is outstanding and we can move into a bigger place, we can have the wedding of our dreams, you don’t have to work if you don’t want to! You can stay home and raise our family…”

“Ethan, wait a second,” you laugh. “Can’t we talk about this?”

“Look, honey, I know it wasn’t what we planned on, but it’s just a little more of a travel commitment until DeSilva retires. Once that desk job opens, I promise I will take it. And I told them I need a week off in between trips, at least, that way we get to spend quality time together.” He is looking at you, his eyes pleading with you to support him in his and you feel so miserably guilty that you force a smile and a nod.

“Fine, Ok, I can do this a bit longer,” you say and he presses his lips to yours.

“That’s my girl…” he says hugging you. He never does ask you what it was you wanted to share.

***************************************************************************

_ You burst into the first stall in the Ladies’ Room, barely making it in time before losing your entire breakfast into the toilet. Once you’re sure you’re done, you rock back on your heels, shaking and weak. It is the second day this week you’ve thrown up and you are starting to wonder if it’s more than stress and nerves. Sherlock had agreed to go to rehab and had been gone three weeks. You miss him terribly but you are doing your best to be strong and with finals rapidly approaching, you have little time to do much else except study. Luckily, your mother’s life insurance policy has taken a huge financial burden off of your mind and you can focus on school and Sherlock. _

_ You rinse out your mouth and splash water on your face and resume your rounds with the rest of your class. After school, you return home and promptly collapse on the couch. You didn’t realize how exhausted you were until the ringing phone wakes you. You sit up and glance at the clock and curse. _

_ “Hello?” you croak, your voice still heavy with sleep. _

_ “Did I wake you?” Sherlock asks and the sound of his voice makes you want to cry. _

_ “I didn’t realize how tired I was. I slept for three hours,” You groan. “Shit, I have so much homework to do.” You rub your eyes, still feeling bone tired despite your long nap. “How are you?” You ask, directing your attention back onto your husband. He only gets to make a few calls a week and they are always to you. _

_ “I’m fine,” he replies, “I am worried about you.” You bite your lip and debate telling him about throwing up at school but let it go. You want him to focus on himself, on his own well-being. _

_ “I’m just tired, it’s getting crazy at school,” you reply. “And I miss you.” He doesn’t talk much about what it’s like at the facility he has been admitted to, instead, he likes to hear about yours days and you bring he up to speed but before too long, his time is up.  _

_ “I love you,” he murmurs, “I am so sorry. I will be home soon.” _

_ “I know,” you reply. “I love you, too.”  _

_ The next day, you head to the store and buy a pregnancy test. You bring it into a bathroom at school and sit and watch as two solid blue lines appear on the stick. _

_ You barely time to process this information before you have to be back in class. It’s advanced pharmacology and you cannot afford to miss a single second. It takes effort to focus on the professor as a thousand other thoughts are coursing through your brain. _

_ A baby. With Sherlock.  _

_ You will need a bigger flat. _

_ How can you possible take care of a baby and go to medical school? _

_ How can Sherlock take care of a baby when he is busy battling addiction? _

_ Will it have his stunning eyes? His amazing mind? _

_ Could this have happened at a worse time? _


	17. 17

You go almost a full week without seeing or speaking to Sherlock. You try to focus on Ethan, trying to give him your attention and affection as if this will somehow make up for the fact that you’ve been sleeping with your secret husband.

This proves to be a difficult task, as you are disappointed that Ethan has chosen a position that requires more travel. Even though you knew he worked abroad when you began dating him, you’d hoped that the length and frequency of his trips would lessen. You love Ethan and you want to spend your life with him, not missing him. You find yourself comparing this relationship to your brief marriage to Sherlock. You and he were always together and neither of you would have had it any other way.

“Ethan is different. This is different,” you tell yourself in those busy, anxious parts of your brain. “Not better or worse, just different.”

You’re are at work one day, a rare day where John actually has booked himself some office hours and the practice is bustling. You are so distracted and you almost don’t even notice Sherlock Holmes sitting in the waiting room when you come out to call your next patient. You stare at him and he looks back at you, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Seeing him there ignites something inside you that you cannot deny and that you can no longer fight. 

“Mr. Holmes, we can see you now,” you say and grabbing a blank chart from the desk, you turn and head back towards the examination rooms. 

He follows you into an empty room and shuts the door behind him. Your heart is pounding in your chest and you are tingling with need. His clear blue eyes are clouded over with desire and you allow yourself to be pulled against him. You lift your mouth to his as he wraps both arms tightly around you and it's as if you are breathing again after being held underwater for too long. You have been aching for him and you instantly want more. You moan quietly and melt against him and he shrugs out of his coat and tosses it aside while you do the same with your white lab coat. He grips your hips and lifts you, setting you on the exam table and positioning himself between your legs. You gasp at the friction there and thrust your hips against him. You are about to lose control and you need this to stop. John is here, you could get caught. You cannot let this happen.

“Not here,” you pant.

“Of course here,” he responds. “It’s been days…”

“I will come over tonight,” you say, pulling away. Sherlock ignorers you, his fingers reaching for the buttons on your shirt. Suddenly, there is a sound at the door, the handle being turned, and you both freeze.

“Y/N?” John asks, opening the door. Sherlock quickly backs away from you, but it’s too late. Your coats are on the floor, your cheeks are flushed and your shirt is unbuttoned and disheveled. “Sorry, I….” He looks from Sherlock to you then back to Sherlock, realization registering on his face. You look away, ashamed. “Uh…” John clears his throat, “Y/N, your fiance is out front. Shall I tell him you will be a moment?”

“Yes, thanks,” you croke. He leaves, closing the door behind him. You hop off of the exam table and smooth the wrinkles out of your shirt before re-buttoning it. You glance in the small mirror above the sink in the corner of the room and try to do your best to look like you weren’t being adulterous. You turn back to Sherlock and he hands you the lab coat, which you shrug on.

“You don’t have to go out there,” he says quietly. “We can slip out the back. Jump on the bike… disappear…” Your eyes fly to his. Trying to read his expression, you scour his face but as usual, he is guarded and you learn nothing.

“Don’t be stupid,” you whisper, more to yourself than him. Your throat feels tight and you try not to let yourself consider running away with Sherlock. You take a deep breath and force yourself out to the reception area.

Ethan is chatting happily with John, who still can’t look you in the eye. 

“What brings you in today?” you say, hoping your tone doesn’t sound too forced. “In need of medical attention?” Ethan laughs and shakes his head.

“Was just hoping to steal you away on your lunch break,” he smiles. “My flight leaves in a few hours and I wanted to see you before I leave.”

“I have one more patient to see,” you say, glancing at your watch.

“I can cover, you go ahead,” John urges. Something over your shoulder catches Ethan’s eye and you turn to see Sherlock coming down the hallway. 

“Is this the fiance we’ve been hearing so much about?” he asks and you glare at him before turning back to Ethan.

“Yes, this is Ethan! He’s come to take me to lunch,” you explain. “And this…” You pause and take a deep breath, “Is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Ah, yes, the great detective,” Ethan says, extending his hand to shake Sherlock’s. As he does this, his phone jingles in his pocket. He makes no move to check it.

“Aren’t you going to grab that?” Sherlock asks, his brow furrowed.

“Nah, it’s probably just work and they can wait a bit,” he shrugs. He turns back to you and smiles. “You ready then?”

“Yes, I am. See you guys later,” you wave, following Ethan out the door.

“Nice to meet you,” calls Sherlock and you cringe.

 

As soon as you are gone, John grabs Sherlock’s arm and tugs him back to his office and shuts the door.

“What are you doing?” he hisses.

“I don’t like him,” Sherlock says, flopping into one of the chairs across from John’s desk.

“Of course you don’t,” he cries, throwing his  hands up in the air. “He’s shagging your wife. Which, I might add, you appear to be doing as well…” He lets the question hang in the air for a few moments before he decides to take his friend’s silence as confirmation. “She still intends on marrying him?”

“Don’t you think it’s odd that he didn’t check his phone when he got that text?” Sherlock asks. John sighs and runs a hand through his hair. 

“I don’t know, maybe a little, he said it was just his work,” John shrugs. “Clearly you find it odd.”

“The thing about text messages,” Sherlock says, pulling out his phone and starting to type away on the screen with his thumbs, “Is that they trigger a tiny little endorphin rush. A sense of joy washes over us and we think, “Oh, someone wants to talk to me! Someone is thinking of me.” John’s phone jingles and he automatically reaches for it. “See?!” Sherlock exclaims. “It’s a reflex! You don’t even know you are doing it!” 

“Sherlock, you’ve just sent me a text that says “It’s a reflex, you don’t even know you are doing it’,” John reads.

“To prove a point. We are all conditioned like Pavlov’s dogs. Except Ethan has unconditioned himself. Why?”

“He doesn’t want to pull out his phone in front of Y/N?” John asks.

“Exactly. Because he doesn’t want to risk being caught reading a text message from someone he doesn't want her to know about.”

“Maybe it’s just his work and it can wait, like he said?”

“Highly unlikely,” Sherlock scoffs.

“Or,” John offers, “You could just be grasping at straws, looking for reasons why Y/N shouldn’t marry Ethan?”

“Also highly unlikely,” Sherlock asserts.

“Well, I have a few more patients to see,” John says, excusing himself. “But think about this: If you are going to shake up Y/N’s relationship with her fiance, you better be damn certain about two things. One- he’s actually cheating and two- you’re prepared to be the man she needs.

*******************************************************************************************************

_ It’s been two months since you and Mycroft dropped Sherlock off at rehab. You’ve spoken to him regularly, but you’ve haven’t told him about the pregnancy, electing to wait until you could tell him in person, see his reaction, share this happy time. _

_ You are at class all day and when you get home, Mycroft and Sherlock are waiting for you at your flat. The second you close the door behind you, you can tell that the situation is not good. _

_ Mycroft, who has his tight lips pulled down into an impressive frown, rises the second he sees you and grabs his things. _

_ “He is in the bedroom. I hereby turn him over to your capable hands,” he nods curtly. Before you can ask him what happened, he’s gone. You quickly head to the back bedroom and find the lights off and Sherlock in bed, his back to you. You crawl across the mattress to him. _

_ “Is that pin headed pratt gone?” he asks and you frown. _

_ “He just left,” you answer, placing your hand his shoulder. _

_ “Good,” he grunts. This is not how you pictured your reunion. _

_ “Welcome home,” you say, quietly. “How are you?” _

_ “Exhausted and in need of a decent night's sleep,” he answers. “Unless you plan on conducting 15 minute checks as well?” You stare at his form for a few long seconds before leaning over and kissing his cheek. _

_ “I’ve got some exciting news to share,” you start, forcing a smile onto your face. He rolls, finally, trashing around in the sheets until he is facing you. _

_ “Yes, please, share with me your exciting news,” he starts, “Do tell me what wonders you experienced living your life while you're junkie husband was off getting clean for two months!” You reel back as if you’ve been struck and tears prick your eyes instantly. _

_ “I’’m sorry, I know you are tired. I will let you rest,” you whisper. “I will be out in the living room of you need me.” He doesn’t reply as you tip-toe from the room. _

_ Curling up on the couch with a blanket, you try to read through your pharmacology assignments but the words swim on the page as you blink away tears. You curse your hormones for making you overreact emotionally and wipe the tears on the back of your hand. You missed him so much while he was gone and you waited for eight weeks for him. This should be a happy time on your life, but now it’s tainted. You let your book fall to the floor with a clunk and bury your face in your hands. You don’t hear the bedroom door open or Sherlock crossing the room until he is beside you. _

_ “I’m sorry,” he says, slipping his arms around you. “I am an ass hole. I am a right, self-pitying cock and I’ve done nothing but make you cry for two months.” You peek out at him and see his clear, sea-glass eyes filled with remorse. “I got lectured the whole way back by Mycroft, telling me to grow up, that it’s not about just me anymore… Basically, according to him, I am an unfit husband and that I had no business getting married…” he is getting angry again and he stops and sighs. “I’m sorry. I want to hear your exciting news, can you tell me now?”  _

_ You gaze at him and you know in your heart that this is the absolute wrong time to tell him. _

_ “Looks like I might pass pharmacology after all,” you lie. He offers you a small smile and pulls you against him. You melt into him and squeeze your eyes shut. _

_ “My clever girl,” he whispers. He hugs you for a long time on the couch, neither of you speaking. Eventually, you allow him to tug you up and bring you to bed.  _

_ You don’t make love, but rather, clutch onto each other, both of you trying to figure out what comes next. _


	18. 18

You feel as if you’ve been apart from Sherlock for a week rather than just a few hours. You hurry up the stairs to 221B Baker Street and see the door is cracked open. You let yourself in and come face to face with Mycroft Holmes.

“Mrs. Holmes,” he greets you cordially. “What a surprise.”

“Hello, Mycroft,” you reply, thinking that he does not actually look at all surprised to see you. “How have you been?” You glance over to Sherlock, who is sitting in his black leather chair and he subtly rolls his eyes.

“Very well, actually,” he says, smiling his tight lipped smile at you. “What brings you back to London.”

“Divorcing your brother,” you shrug and Mycroft lifts one eyebrow. 

“My condolences to you both,” he drawls. “Mother and father will be so disappointed to hear it’s finally over.” You frown at the thought of further disappointing Sherlock's parents.

“Give them my best, will you?” you ask and Mycroft does not miss the sincerity in your tone. “They were always so kind to me. I think of them often.”

“I will be sure to tell them so,” Mycroft replies. “You both probably have much to discuss, what with the divorce proceedings.”

“Thank you Mycroft,” Sherlock says, standing and crossing the room. “I will walk you out.”

You nod a quick farewell to the elder Holmes brother and wait patiently until Sherlock returns. 

“He still doesn’t like me,” you frown at him as he locks the door behind him.

“You still are not smothered in gravy,” Sherlock says, returning to his chair.

“How are your parents?” you ask, shrugging off your coat and placing your purse next to it on the desk before curling up opposite Sherlock in the red plaid chair.

“Relatively unchanged,” he answers and you smile.

“That makes me happy,” you reply quietly. “I loved them.”

“And they you,” he says, steepling his fingertips together and pressing them to his lips. Guilt fills your chest as you think about all the people you hurt when you left Sherlock, kind people that trusted you.

“I’m sorry I hurt them,” you say, but Sherlock swats the words away as if they were tiny little flies buzzing in front of his face. 

“Where does he go? When he travels?” Sherlock asks and the guilt in your heart switches from past regrets to your most recent one.

“Sherlock, I don’t want to talk about Ethan…”

“Does he ask about what you do when he’s gone?” he continues, ignoring you.

“No, he trusts me,” you mutter. “Are you trying to make me feel shitty?”

“Do you ask what he does?”

“He works,” you shrug and Sherlock squints his eyes. “Why are we talking about this? Does this have anything to do with Mycroft’s visit? Is he ‘looking into’ Ethan?” You straighten up in your chair, suddenly suspicious.

“Y/N, I am offended,” he replies indignantly, standing and taking a few steps towards you. He reaches down and pulls up to your feet. “Now, where did we leave off this afternoon?” he replies, weaving his fingers into your hair and tipping your lips up to meet his. Something feels off, but as his hands slip lower and lower on your body, you lose the ability to think of anything else except how much you want him.

************************************************************************************************************

_ Sherlock’s foul post-rehab mood hangs on for long days after his return. You want to call Mycroft and make him come back so you can punch him in that perfect, slender nose. Sherlock already had so many doubts about being a good husband and Mycroft comes along and basically validates every single one and nothing you can say seems to be getting through to him. _

_ Your pregnancy is progressing and you keep waiting for Sherlock to notice, but his abnormal powers of observation have been blocked by the thick walls of self-doubt and self-pity he’s encased himself in. _

_ You start to have second thoughts about having the baby and after days of watching Sherlock mope around your flat, you call a clinic and make an appointment to end your pregnancy on the following Tuesday. You jot the time and address down in your planner and shut it. _

_ You almost instantly regret this and call the clinic back to cancel the appointment, drawing a single, solid line through the note in your planner. _

_ This is your baby. Your and Sherlock’s baby. For better or worse, you are going to be parents. _

_ After a few days, Sherlock’s mood begins to lighten. He showers, shaves and dresses in real clothes. He even places a few calls around to the local precincts to see if any unusual cases have arisen that may require his expertise. As you rush out the door for the day, he grabs your elbow and pulls you back to him, gathering you up in his arms and kissing you with such fervor and passion that when he pulls away, you’re reeling. Flushed, you wave good-bye and smiling like a fool, you decide that tonight is the night you tell him that he’s going to be a dad. _


	19. 19

Later that week, after work, Sherlock informs you that John, Mary and Rosie are coming to Baker Street for dinner and that you are more than welcome to join them all. There has been a slightly strange shift in the dynamic between you and John since he caught you making out with Sherlock in the exam room. It’s no longer just a secret you and Sherlock share, and you have no doubt that John is judging you. You can’t blame him, it’s a terrible thing you are doing to Ethan but try as you might, you cannot stop yourself.

You agree to dinner because you can’t stand the thought of missing an evening with Sherlock, even a platonic one, with your divorce looming out in front of you. When you arrive just before six, John and his family are already there. He greets you as if nothing has changed as does Mary and you are grateful. You spend a quick moment chatting and catching up before excusing yourself to the kitchen under the guise of helping Sherlock with dinner.

“Hi,” you say and it comes out rushed and breathy. Sherlock, who was at that moment trying to determine how many ounces of spaghetti each guest would consume, looked up when he heard you, a small smile creeping across his heart shaped lips. 

“Hello,” he replies, setting down the box of pasta. He moves towards you, placing his hands on your waist and bending to give you a quick kiss. You blush and gently push him away, glancing over your shoulder to see if John or Mary happened to catch the exchange. “We are well out of their line of sight,” he informs you so you decide to allow him one more kiss before taking a step back. You don't stop until you feel the edge of the countertop pressing into your back. 

“How are you?” you ask. 

“Better, now,” he replies and you feel the flush return to your cheeks. “But not as good as I hope to be.” You smile and stare at the floor. Sherlock Holmes, your husband of ten years, is flirting with you.

“Oh, really?” You challenge, raising an eyebrow at him. “High hopes then?” He considers this phrase as he lifts the previously abandoned pasta box.

“Well, since I am basing the height, if you will, of my hopes off of the outcomes of our past few… encounters… I would have to say that yes, my hopes are relatively high.”

“As they should be,” you tease.

“Mrs. Holmes,” he says as he pours the precise amount of spaghetti can into the pot of boiling water, “I admire your confidence.”

“Well based on the outcomes of our past few encounters…” you quote back to him.

You are both so wrapped up in your playful banter that neither of you notice that John has decided that he needs a refill on his wine. He heads towards the kitchen, but hesitates at the edge of the doorway. He knows he is intruding on a private moment, but it is so captivating, he can’t look away. He sees the man he’s know for years but he can hardly recognize him. With a half smirk, Sherlock is asking your opinion on the sauce. He’s holding out a wooden spoon towards you, his other hand underneath it to catch any drips. Your lips part slightly and you taste the tomato sauce, licking your lips and nodding in approval. He tastes it himself before returning the spoon to the simmering pot. Then, he bends and kisses you gently on the mouth. John watches your eyelids flutter shut and he can’t help but notice the tiniest of sighs you omit as Sherlock pulls away. The two of you remain locked on each other, both of your eyes dancing in some silent exchange. It’s such an unimportant moment, but for some reason it’s so tender and intimate, John quietly retreats back to the living room.

Mary is playing with Rosie on the floor and John joins her there. He has an odd look on his face and Mary gives him a quizzical look.

“I think…” he says, slowly, quietly, “that Sherlock is in love.” Mary gives her husband a sympathetic smile and presses a kiss to his cheek.

“Of course he is,” she says, sadly.

“We have to do something,” John insists. “They are so clearly in love and so perfect for each other…”

“Stay out of it, Doctor Watson, there is too much at stake here,” Mary warns. “Let them do what they need to do.”

A short while later, you emerge from the kitchen carrying two plates of pasta, Sherlock on your heels carrying two more. Mary sets Rosie up in a little high chair and you all settle down at the table.

“Smells great,” John comments, placing his napkin on his lap and you nod.

“I am starving,” you reply, digging in. It is a cozy evening and you are happy to be here, with these people. More than once, you catch John watching your interactions with Sherlock with an almost perplexed look on his face. 

After dinner, when he offers to help clean up, he corners you in the kitchen.

“Dinner was surprisingly great,” he starts and the way the statement hangs in the air makes you feel as if he has more to say.

“Sherlock is full of surprises,” you reply, with a laugh.

“He sure is,” John says, sounding distracted. “Perhaps the most surprising I realized this evening is that he is still in love with you.” You fumble the dish you are washing, nearly dropping it.

“He is not still in love with me,” you retort and you can feel your face turning red.

“I have known that man for a long time,” he says, gesturing towards the living room, “And I have never seen him like this, ever. 

“He knows what this is,” you try to explain. “He knows this will end and we will both move on.”

“Neither of you have moved on in ten years,” John pushes. “You’re trying to, but you’re failing miserably. Do you really think that once you have that little piece of paper that says you are no longer married that you will be able to put this all behind you?” You stare down into the sink at the soapy water, your eyes misting over. In your heart of hearts, in the deepest, darkest places you refuse to acknowledge even exists, you know this is true. You have spent the last ten years trying to outrun your love for the man in the next room, only to wind up back in his arms. And all the lies you’ve been telling yourself since you landed in London don’t matter anymore; John’s spoken the truth out loud.

“I’ve got to go,” you say, shutting off the water and drying your hands on the dish towel next to you. You grab your things and force yourself not to sprint from the flat.

“Thanks for dinner, something’s come up, I’ve got to go…” you say and you’re gone, down the stairs, out the door and on your bike. Sherlock is still staring at the place you just were when he hears you peeling away from the curb out on the street below. Both he and Mary turn to John, who is standing in the kitchen doorway with a sheepish look on his face.

“John?” Mary asks. “What did you do?”

“Yes, John, care to explain?” Sherlock asked, glaring down at his friend.

“I simply explained that, to me, it appeared that the two of you were in love…”

“You didn’t...,” Mary groaned.

“Well they are!” John shouts. He turns to Sherlock. “Go ahead. Stand there and tell me you’re not in love with her. Tell me that you don’t care that she’s marrying what’s-his-name!”

“Of course I bloody well care,” Sherlock shouts back. Rosie starts to fuss at all the angry voices and Mary bounces her, walking around the room, whispering soothingly to her.

“Aren’t you going to do something about it?” John demands in a more controlled tone.

“I am working on it,” Sherlock replies through gritted teeth, also trying to regain his composure. “But now you’ve likely scared her off with all your talk about  **_love_ ** !”

“I’m not wrong, I see the two of you together. In all the time I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you this happy, this content. It’s because of her.”

“It’s all because of her,” Sherlock says, so quietly, John almost misses it. His friend was right. It’s because of you that he’d closed himself off, kept himself from getting too close to anyone. And it was because of you that he was coming back to life and he so desperately wanted to live that life with  **_you_ ** . The look on your face as you fled the flat tonight was not a good sign. He rubbed his chin and let out a slow sigh.

“I am sorry I interfered,” John said at last. “I just want you to be happy. Both of you.”

“I appreciated your efforts,” he replied. “As I’ve said, I am working on it.” John nods and begins to gather up Rosie’s toys and blankets. Sherlock kisses Mary and Rosie good night, and gives John a curt nod before showing them out. 

****************************************************************************************************************************

_ You open your eyes and you realize something is wrong. You’re in a hospital room with no memory of how you came to be. Your hand instantly flutters to your abdomen and you glance over to see Sherlock, eyes rimmed red, staring back at you and you know instantly it’s over.  _

_ “What happened?” you ask, still feeling a bit groggy. _

_ “You passed out in class. They couldn’t wake you. I got a call...” he says, his baritone voice ragged, as if he’s been swallowing nails all afternoon. “You… we… lost the baby…” he says, his voice cracking and breaking on the last word. You feel the tears on your cheeks before you realize you are crying. Sherlock doesn’t move to hug you but instead he stares at you, his own eyes shining bright with unshed tears. _

_ “You knew?” he asks and you nod. “How long?” _

_ “Almost three months,” you admit, a cold pit of shame forming in your stomach.  _

_ “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.  _

_ “I wanted to wait for you to get out of--- to come home,” you start. _

_ “I’ve been home for a month!” he says, anger edging its way into his tone. _

_ “You haven’t been yourself,” you sob. “I didn’t know how to tell you…” _

_ “ ‘Oh hey, by the way, Sherlock, you’re going to be a father,’ would have done just fine,” he replies. _

_ “I’m sorry, I was waiting for the right time,” you tell him, your eyes pleading with him to understand. _

_ “You’re sorry? I just found out I was expecting and lost my child in the same sentence,” he grinds out and you wince. “Tell me the truth. You were having second thoughts about being married to me. You were having second thoughts about bringing a child into the world with me.” _

_ “No, that’s not it, Sherlock, please,” you say, but the monitor you are hooked up to starts beeping wildly and a nurse rushes into the room. _

_ “Your heart rate and blood pressure are spiking,” she says, checking the screen. “I know you’ve just experienced a terrible loss, but you have to try to calm down. You need your rest.” She looks at Sherlock pointedly and he nods. _

_ “I will let you rest,” he says, standing and bending over the railing of the bed to press a gentle kiss to your head. “I will be back in the morning.” As soon as he leaves, you burst into a fresh round of tears.  _

_ “He’s hurting, too,” she says quietly. “Men handle it differently than we do.” She pats your arm gently. “Everything happens for a reason,” the nurse says. “It’s hard to see that now, but someday you will, trust me.” _

 

_ You spend the long night in the hospital mulling over the kind nurse’s words. Perhaps this was for the best. Whether he liked it or not, Sherlock was in a precarious place at the moment and you still have so much schooling to finish. Caring for a baby would mean sacrificing so much of your plans and aspirations. And although you gladly would have done all of that and more, part of you was wondered if eventually you would have ended up resenting your child, much like your mother resented you. And you could try again, when the timing was better. You want a family with Sherlock, of this you are certain. Feeling a tiny bit better, you finally drift off to sleep. _

_ When you awake the next morning, Sherlock back, sitting in the chair by your bed. He looks as if he has been there for ages. He sees you are awake and reaches for your hand. _

_ “I’m sorry,” he says, kissing your knuckles. “I didn’t mean all those things I said. I was shocked and devastated. I was awful to you when you needed me the most. I’ve been unforgivably selfish for a very long, long time.” You shift over so that he can crawl into the bed next to you. He wraps his long arms around you and pulls you to him. You allow yourself to be enveloped by him. You breathe in his scent and try to savor this feeling. "I want to do better,” he whispers. “I want to be better for you, for our family. I want to try again, for another baby. I want this with you.” Slowly, you pull away and look up at him.  _

_ “I can’t,” you whisper. _

_ “Yes, you can, the doctor said we can try again in a few weeks,” he insists. _

_ “No, I mean, I don’t think it’s the right time,” you reply. “For us.” He blinks at you, processing what you’ve just said, then, his face falls and you feel your heart shatter. _

_ “Oh,” he simply says. “Oh. Ok, I understand.” _

_ “We have to think about what is best for the baby,” you offer. “I should finish school, get a good job, a house…” _

_ “I should get clean…” he adds, frowning.  _

_ “Sherlock…” you whisper, a lump forming in your throat. “We just have a lot of things to iron out.” _

_ “It’s fine,” he says, attempting to reassure you. “You’re absolutely right.” He looks away but you catch a glimpse of his sad, blue eyes.  _


	20. 20

The flat is still and Sherlock wonders how long he’s been sitting, lost in thought. He knows he has to address what John has said to you, but for the first time in a long time, he feels at a loss for words.

John was right, of course. He knew it and he also know that you knew it. But what to do? 

Deny it and lose whatever chance he still had at saving his marriage. Confess to it and scare you away. He was running out of options and Sherlock Holmes was not used to being a man without several courses of action at his disposal.

He had grown accustomed to the solitude he’d surrounded himself with over the past few years. Sure, he’d acquiesced a bit by letting John Watson into his life, then, of course, Mary and even Molly, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, to an extent. But even then, even after he’d allowed himself to indulge in all those funny little relationships, he was still alone. He had almost forgotten what it was like to share himself with someone they way he had when he was with you.

The way he does when he is with you.

The way he would, if he could stay with you.

Going back to that life, the same life that until a few weeks ago he had found more than satisfactory, seems almost like a death sentence now.

Glancing at his watch, he sighs and reaches for his phone. It’s late but he has a feeling you aren’t yet asleep.

**\--Had an interesting chat with John.**

You know he is trying to be cryptic, in case Ethan was home, but since you are alone you tap the screen and dial his number. 

“John told me what he said to you,” Sherlock starts, and you can picture him, sitting in his chair, rubbing his temple as he speaks.

“I know that he and Mary both know what’s going on,” you sigh, “But knowing that they know makes it more real. And the fact that it’s real means that I am really an awful person…”

“You are not an awful person,” Sherlock says and the tone of his voice makes you wish that you were with him. He’d draw you close to him and make you believe these words.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you tell him, your throat beginning to ache with emotion.

“Come back,” Sherlock murmurs, his deep voice smooth as silk. “Please.” You squeeze the phone so tightly, your knuckles start to ache.

“I can’t,” you sniff. “I can’t.”

“I will come there,” he offers.

“No, it’s too risky,” you say, shaking your head even though he can’t see you.

“Can I see you tomorrow?” he asks. You close your eyes and think hard about how to answer that.

“Yes,” you say, finally.

“Alright then, I will see you tomorrow,” he says, telling you good night before he hangs up. Setting your phone down, you grind the heels of your hands into your eyeballs. You reach for the paper sitting on the couch beside you and even though you’ve read it four or five times, you scan it again. Amidsts the formal wording and legal jargon is a date. On that day, you will cease being married to Sherlock and you will be free to marry Ethan. And even though you haven't really been Mrs. Y/N Holmes for a long, long time, knowing that part of your life will be truly over makes you feel a sense of loss that you never expected.

***************************************************************************************************************************

_ Back at home, Sherlock is attentive and doting, the two of you working together to navigate the grief surrounding your loss. True partners in all things, you each take turns being the strong one when the other breaks down. _

_ You’ve been given a doctor’s note to take the rest of the semester off. You need to contact your professors to reschedule your final exams, but the past few days have been hard and you’ve barely gotten out of bed. _

_ You are seated at your kitchen table with your planner closed in front of you, your hand on beside the telephone, tears running down your face. Your hormones are out of wack and the sad, empty feeling hits you at random times and at times you have difficulty keeping it together. Sherlock hears your tell-tale sniffling from the other room and comes running. _

_ You know he understands and you know this is all normal, but every break down feels like you are disappointing him further. He pulls you from the chair and wraps you in his arms, stroking your hair and whispering gently to you. You continue to shake quietly in his embrace and as the tears subside he leads you to the bathroom and draws you a bath. You smile as you watch him, thinking for the one millionth time since you left the hospital how truly lucky you are. _

_ “Have a soak,” he says, tugging at your clothes. “I will make the calls for you.” _

_ “Thank you,” you murmur, feeling as if you might cry again. “All the names, dates and numbers are in my planner.” _

_ “Just relax,” he says, as he ducks out the door. You shed your clothes and slip into the steamy water, the heat soothing your tired muscles and you close your eyes. _

_ The soak in the bath seems to be just what you needed and as you dry and tug on your robe, you marvel at how well Sherlock knows you and always knows exactly what you need. _

_ You pad down the hall into the bedroom and find Sherlock sitting on your bed. He doesn’t look up at you as you enter, his eyes focused on your leather planner that he is clutching in his hand. Something was very wrong, but you had no idea what. _

_ “I…” he began, his voice faltering. He cleared his throat and started again. “I called all your professors and rescheduled your exams.” He opened the planner and winced, as if something on the page was causing him pain. “I saw you had a line through this appointment, but I wanted to double check that whatever it was had been cancelled… I didn’t want to assume…” You took a few steps forward and saw the appointment he was referring to. It was the appointment with the clinic that you’d made to end your pregnancy. Your heart fell to your toes. _

_ “Sherlock…” you breathed. _

_ “It’s your body, I respect that, but this is our life,” he says, finally meeting your eyes. The pain you see there is so staggering, you have to take a step back. _

_ “It was only a second of doubt,” you stammer. _

_ “Your second of doubt just confirmed my biggest doubt,” he said, closing the planner and tossing on the bed beside him.  _

_ “Sherlock, please,” you beg, but he strides past you. You follow after him and watch as he tugs on his jacket. “Where are you going?” _

_ “I need some air to clear my head,” he said. “We will talk when I get back.”  _

_ “Sherlock, I love you,” you sniffed. He blinked at you for a second and then, he was gone, the door shutting loudly behind him. _

_ Your legs give out and you collapse on the floor, the relaxed feeling from your bath long gone. You’d failed so many times over the past few weeks. You’d fallen short as a friend, a wife and a mother. You doubted the only person who loved you and as a result, you’d made him doubt himself. You almost aborted the pregnancy, which you then hid from him and then you denied him the opportunity to try again. _

_ Your vision swam as tears filled your eyes. This wasn’t the type of wife you wanted to be and you weren’t the wife Sherlock deserved. You gazed around the small, dumpy apartment that you’d both turned into a home. It felt so empty without Sherlock here and suddenly the silence was deafening. _

_ You were up off the floor and moving before you even realized what you were doing. You shed your robe, hastily dressing in jeans and a sweater and shove your feet into your boots. You pull your wet hair up into a low ponytail and grab your coat and purse off the hook. You hand pauses, hovering above the dish where the motorbike keys reside and you realize your trembling. With a deep breath, you grab them and jot down a note to Sherlock. _

_ “Just a quick ride,” you mutter, repeating the same words you’d scribbled on the notepad inside as you kick start the bike, the loud engine almost drowning out all the terrible thoughts in your head. Almost, but not quite.  _


	21. Chapter 21

The door is ajar and you let yourself in, calling out his name.

“Bedroom,” he calls and you head in that direction. When you reach the doorway, you are surprised to see a small suitcase laid out on the bed. Sherlock is turning from his dresser, holding a stack of folded shirts that he gently sets inside.

“Leaving?” you tease. His eyes raise to meet yours for a moment before returning to focus on his packing.

“Don’t worry, I will be back in plenty of time to give you your divorce,” he replies. Your heart sinks.

“You got your letter?” you ask and he nods. You watch him in silence for a few long moments, not sure what to say. “Where are you going?” you ask, finally.

“Something’s come up. A case,” he says. “I’ve got to go out of town for a few days.” You frown.

“I was hoping we could spend this last week together,” you say, quietly. “Ethan is gone and by the time he gets back we will be…” Your voice trails off, unable to speak the final word. Sherlock stops packing and crosses the room towards you. Stopping just in front of you, he reaches up and gently takes your face in his hands before guiding your lips to his.

“Come with me,” he whispers. “Come be mine again.” You squeeze your eyes shut, guilt and regret and sadness welling up inside you.

“I can’t,” you say, shaking your head. “I am going to marry Ethan.”

“Ethan,” Sherlock says loudly, and you watch as his whole demeanor changes. His hands drop away from you and he straightens up. “Just how well do you know Ethan?” 

“Don’t,” you warn. “Please don’t.”

“It’s a fair question,” Sherlock shrugs. “He’s about to marry my wife. I want to know how well you know him. Do you trust him?”

“Just because we are awful, lying, unfaithful people doesn't mean everyone else is,” you reply. “I don’t want to talk about him right now.”

“We have to talk about this,” Sherlock pushes. “Our time is coming to an end and I need to make sure you know what you are doing.”

“I know what I am doing, Sherlock,” you reply. “In fact, the only area of my life where I am unsure of what I am doing is wherever you are concerned.”

“If you love him like you say you do, you wouldn't be here with me,” Sherlock points out and his comment catches you square in the gut. Anger flares in your chest.

“This is just sex, isn’t it?” you taunt. 

“It has never been ‘just sex’ and you know it,” Sherlock counters. “We are so much more than that.”

“We are two people trying to recapture a love that we ruined years ago,” you cry, angrily. “We are living in the past, trying to make up for the mistakes that drove us apart.”

“That’s not us,”he says, taking a step closer. “And you are so afraid of hurting  _ him _ that you won’t even give this a fair chance.” He turns away, running a hand through his dark curls. 

“I don’t want to do it again,” you hiss. “I can’t keep going around ruining people’s lives because I don’t know what I want!”

“Is that what you think happened?” Sherlock asks, spinning back towards you. “That you ruined my life because you weren’t sure if you wanted a baby with me?” You look away, unable to meet his eyes. “Losing the baby....” he starts in a quieter voice, “It just wasn’t the right time. You had every right to be scared, to question our ability to raise a child. Being scared and uncertain doesn’t make you a bad person.”

“I can’t do this with you right now,” you say, your voice shaking as you try to push past him.

“You’re right, you should have done this with me ten years ago,” Sherlock replies, gripping your arms and keeping you rooted in place. “So you will do this with me now.” Tears are falling from your eyes and you can’t speak. “I was not in a good place back then. I was a fucked up mess and for that I am sorry. The miscarriage wasn’t your fault. Finding out that you had considered ending the pregnancy didn’t break my heart. You broke my heart when you kept secrets from me and then left without telling me why. And if you marry him, you will destroy all the pieces that remain.” You are sobbing so hard now you can barely stand. Sherlock gently grips your chin, forcing you to look at him as he speaks. His expression is serious, his eyes are bright with emotion. “I could have been happy either way. I would have been happy to wait for the right time. Or if the right time never came, I still would have been happy because I was right where I was supposed to be.... by your side. You need to forgive yourself. For all of it.” His arms band around you, crushing you against him.

“There were so many times I wanted to come home,” you weep, “I was so ashamed of myself. For losing the baby, for doubting you, for leaving. I made so many mistakes…” He moves, his hands gently cradling your face and tips your head up, his eyes locked on yours.

“And I forgive you for them all,” he whispers before placing a kiss on your lips. “Forgive yourself.” You can taste the salt from your own tears and you know you are a mess but he doesn’t seem to care. He brushes away your tears with loving fingertips, which then trail over your cheeks, down your neck, over your shoulders and move to your shirt, bunching it in eager fists, pulling it up and off. His hands ghost over yours skin, barely touching you, and you shiver at the sensation. Hands press against the small of your back and you feel the stiff material of his shirt against your bare stomach. You ache to feel his smooth, warm skin instead and force your own hands into action, unbuttoning his shirt and tugging it off.

“This is the last time,” you whisper as you fall onto the bed.

“I know,” he replies, his hands still running over your bare skin as if he is trying hard to get his fill. He slides his hands up the length of your arms, gripping both wrists and pinning them above your head. His lips leave yours, trailing kisses down your jaw, the day old beard raking against you and driving you wild. He exhales in the crook of your neck, his warm breath making you squirm as goosebumps prick your skin. He releases his hold on your wrists and you wrap your arms around his neck, wanting him close. 

You move together, hungry bodies desperate for each other. His eyes are so bright and clear that you swear you can see all the way through them to his heart. All of his pain, all of his hope is all right there, beneath those long lashes and it’s almost unbearable.

You press your fingertips into his shoulder blades and he responds by quickening the pace every so slightly. Arching your back, you raise your hips to meet his and you are rewarded with a throaty moan.

“Slower,” he pants, “If this is our final time, I want it to last…” And he does make it last, bringing you to the edge of ecstasy again and again until neither of you can sustain another second and you both come apart in each other’s arms.

Even after, he holds you against him tightly and you wonder if he is afraid that you will sneak away again. Neither of you speak, though you each have so much to say to the other. You are starting to doze when Sherlock whispers your name.

“I have to go,” he says gently. “My flight leaves soon.” Opening your eyes, your gaze meets his and this one look says all the things neither of you could bring yourself to speak. He kisses you again before rolling away. You both rise and dress and he meets you at the foot of his bed.

“Do me this one favor,” he says, taking your hands in his. “Think about Ethan. Don’t let your guilt taint your logic. Don't just see;  _ observe _ ,” he says. “When he leaves, how many suits does he pack? How many t-shirts, how many shorts? Is there a lot of dry cleaning when he returns? Or do the suits go right back into the closet? When he sets his phone down, is the screen facing up so he can see in coming calls? Or does he put it screen side down?”

“Please, stop,” you whisper. “I know what you are doing. But Ethan is a good man, he deserves better than me. I can’t undo all the terrible things I’ve done, but I can do my best to make up for them by being a good wife to him.” Sherlock flinches when you say the word wife. You know what you have to do. Slowly reaching up, you grasp the set of rings on the necklace and squeeze them in your hand for a long moment before you tug, a swift jerking motion, and the chain comes apart around your neck. It feels like a weight being lifted off your shoulders and you reach out your hand towards Sherlock. He looks from your balled up fist to your eyes and you see a sadness there that makes your heart break in two. He holds out his hand, palm up and you drop the rings into it. Slowly, he coils the chain around them before his fingers close.

“Please, just be back for the court date,” you say, nodding at his suitcase.

“I already told you I would be there,” he replies.

“Good-bye, Sherlock,” you say, quickly turning and leaving the flat. You did a bit better this time, you think to yourself; at least this time you said good-bye.


	22. 22

_ Your eyes are gritty from crying and you roll over in the uncomfortable motel room bed. Everything you own is piled on a chair in the corner and your brand new passport is resting on top of the small nightstand, beside a one way plane ticket. A few phone calls to your mother’s attorney Mr. Deering had resulted in a very speedy liquidation of all your bank accounts as well as your expedited passport application. It all happened so much faster than you ever imagined and now that it was real, you were having second thoughts. _

_ Your forced your exhausted body up and swung your legs over the edge of the bed. Everyday since you’d left, you’d gotten on your bike with the intention of returning home and groveling on your knees until Sherlock forgave you for everything. And everyday, you’d stopped short, blocks from the flat, chest heaving as you remembered one important fact: _

_ You did not deserve that forgiveness. _

_ Tomorrow you would board a plane and begin your self imposed exile, taking with you only a scant few belongings in addition to the weighty baggage of your shame and sorrow. _

**********************************************************************************************************

Back at home, you feel empty and alone. Ethan is out of town, Sherlock’s gone and even if he wasn’t that’s done now. The date for your divorce is less than a week away. You bring your hand up to touch the wedding rings around your neck, but remember it’s gone. There is just a blank space there now and you know that you’ve done the right thing. It’s time to leave the past behind you. Sherlock’s forgiven you and after your talk, you feel a sense of closure about the events leading up to your departure.

Something Sherlock said keeps tickling the back of your brain and you revisit his comments over and over during the course of your day. Out of sheer frustration and the desire to prove him wrong, you pull out the drawer of Ethan’s desk where he keeps his receipts for work and shuffle through them until you find the most recent dry cleaning bills. You reconcile the drop off dates with the corresponding trips aboard, taking into consideration how long he was gone and how many meetings he likely had. The corners of your mouth turn further and further downward with each receipt you review. If he was in six days of business meetings he’d need at least three to four suits and no less than six dress shirts. These receipts had only one or two suits and one or two dress shirts. 

With an angry grunt, you shove the papers back where you found them and curse Sherlock for making you question Ethan. He didn’t want to be away from you, traveling all over, sleeping in hotels, boarding plane after plane. He did it as a means to an end, to get himself positioned for the domestic division desk job. He was just paying his dues and you knew this was the plan since the beginning.

When Ethan arrives home, you are waiting for him. He scoops you up and carries you to your bedroom. He sets you on the bed and you watch as he empties his pockets, setting his wallet, change and phone down on the night stand. You do a double take as you realize has put his phone screen side down. You give yourself a mental shake, thinking angrily that Sherlock has worked his way into your head and you just want him to leave you alone. Ethan collapses on the bed next to you and you reach for his belt, but he stops you.

“Babe, I am jet lagged to hell and I need a shower,” he says, his eyes glancing up at you apologetically.

“Of course,” you say, nodding sympathetically. “Of course.” He pushes himself off of the bed and heads for the bathroom. As soon as you hear the water running, you grab his cell phone and look through. You aren’t sure what you are checking for, so you look at his texts, his pictures, his emails, his recent calls, his contacts and you find nothing. You quickly move to his suitcase and unzip it. Four suits, four shirts, four ties, and nothing out of the ordinary. 

Taking a deep breath, you try to replay everything you know but, as Sherlock instructed, objectively. Yes, your love making had dipped a little, but Ethan was traveling so much and you … well you were with Sherlock. There were a few times he’d left the room to take a call, but that could have been for any number of reasons. Maybe there was a bad connection and he needed to be near a window? Maybe he needed to focus because the caller had a thick Japanese accent? Maybe it was just private work stuff? It didn’t mean it was another woman. And maybe he had fewer formal meetings with his new role. The dry cleaning bills could just mean nothing. It all could just mean something, but it could also just be you jealous lover trying to convince you there was more going on.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, you rub your hands over your face a few times and wish you could quiet that nagging voice in your head, which happen to sound a lot like Sherlock Holmes.

**************************************************************************

_ A sharp knock at the door makes Sherlock leap from the couch, crossing the room in two quick, long strides. He pulls the door open and his shoulders fall as he realizes it’s just Mycroft. _

_ “Well?” he demands as his brother pushes past him, not waiting for a formal invitaioton in. _

“ _ She’s fine,” Mycroft says, laying a folder down in front of his brother.  “She’s emptied her bank accounts and purchased a ticket to Tortola in the British Virgin Islands. She has made reservations there at this hotel, for one week,” he says removing one of the papers. _

_ “I need to be on the next flight there,” Sherlock said, pushing himself away from the table. He staggered a bit and steadied himself on the back of a chair. He had been worried sick for days, wondering where you’d gone to. He’d called Mycroft in a panic and he’d used the resources at his disposal to locate you.  _

_ “First the list, brother mine,” Mycroft requested, holding out his hand. Sherlock dug a small piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it over. “Is this it?” _

_ “Just enough to take the edge off,” Sherlock replies, rubbing his bleary eyes. “I need you to drive me. To the airport.” _

_ “Of course, but think about this perhaps,” Mycroft starts, “She left, didn’t bother to take any of her belongings, didn’t have the courtesy to tell you where she was, that she is alive, drained your accounts and purchased ONE, that’s one, plane ticket to a remote island in the Caribbean. I would say that she is pretty much done with this life and moving onto another.” _

_ “She’s hurting and I’ve got to get to her,” Sherlock insists.  _

_ “You don’t need a plane ticket,” Mycroft explains. “She is holed up in a little no-tell motel near Heathrow. Has been for days. That’s less than a twenty minute drive from here.” _

_ “Take me,” Sherlock says, grabbing his coat and stumbling out the door. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the wall and pauses. It has been days since he’s shaved, his eyes are bloodshot, his hair matted and unwashed. “No wonder she left,” he scoffs at his reflection. Mycroft places a gentle hand on his shoulder. _

_ “Caring is not an advantage,” he says quietly. “Maybe Y/N has gotten it right. Leaving all this sentiment behind…” Sherlock sags against the wall and closes his eyes.  _

_ He remembered the last words you’d’ spoken to him. you’d called out after him, saying you loved him. Why didn’t he just say it back to you? Four words. Four words you needed to hear. I. Love. You. Too. He was angry, he was heartbroken, but none of that meant he’d stopped loving you. At the time, he wanted to hurt you; retribution for making him hurt. Now, it all seemed so childish. Mycroft was right and had been right all along. He was emotionally unfit to be a husband or a father. He knew what he had to do.  _

_ “Let her go,” he croaked, more to himself than to Mycroft. “She deserves better.” Sherlock says, pushing himself off the wall. He opens the door and gestures for his brother to leave. Mycroft nods once then allows himself to be shown out. He places his left hand on the door, pushing it shut and has he does, his wedding band catches his eye. You are still his wife, you two are still married. You will have to return, eventually, and when she does, Sherlock vows then and there to be better. _


	23. 23

“I won’t be in until after lunch tomorrow,” you remind John. He purses his lips and runs a hand through his hair. He hears Mary’s voice in his head, telling him to stay out of it. It’s Sherlock’s life, he can handle his relationships himself. Turning away, he stops, thinking better of it, and pivots back to face you.

“How?” he demands. “How can what you have with Ethan be better than what you have with Sherlock?” he asks pointedly. “How could anyone else look you the way that he does?” You look away and frown. 

“It’s not better, it’s just...different,” you say, weakly. “It’s just time to move on.”

“Bullshit,” John says. “Absolute bullshit. You think you don’t deserve Sherlock after whatever it was that you did to him.”

“John, you don’t get it,” you shout angrily. “I  **_don’t_ ** deserve Sherlock. At all! And do you know why? Because I doubted that he was good enough to be a father to our baby. I hid my pregnancy and miscarried our baby anyway. Then, I walked out and left everything I owned and never returned. He was the only person left in the world who ever really cared about me and I broke his heart and ran away from him.”

“But he’s right here, right now,” John insists. “And he cares about you still.”

“I already had my chance at that life,” you shrug. “And I blew it. And Ethan is a wonderful man. Is it the same as what I had with Sherlock? No… but it is still more than I deserve.”

“I don’t believe that, not for a second,” John insists. “And I don’t think you do, either.” You know you aren’t going to win this one so you shrug.

“I’m sorry,” you say, quietly, “I am sorry we got you involved and I am sorry that I hurt your friend. I will be in late tomorrow. See you then.” John nods once and lets you leave.

The morning of your divorce, you readying for work, even though you won’t be going there until much later. Ethan kisses you on the temple on your way out the door and you grab a cab downtown to the courts. 

You meet your solicitor outside court room B, as planned. Together, you are seated on a long bench, waiting to be summoned.

“Have you seen your husband yet?” he asks, quietly and you shake your head. You glance around the room then down at your watch, wondering if he is going to stand you up. 

You glance more frequently towards the door as the hour of your hearing draws near. With minutes to spare, you look up again to see Sherlock breezing in, coat trailing out behind him as he crosses the room in long strides. You almost smile when you see him, but remind yourself that this isn’t a happy meeting. You stand to greet him.

“You made it,” you whisper. “Just in time.”

“Wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” he replies, a sarcastic smile on his lips. 

“How was your trip?” you ask.

“Unpleasant but enlightening,” he replies. You wrinkle your brow, trying to decipher his meaning. He pulls out a large manila envelope that has been tucked under his arm and holds it out to you.

“I want you to have this,” he says.

“What is it?” you ask, sliding your hand under the flap.

“Wait,” he says stopping you. “Wait until after the divorce is finalized. Then open it.” Even more confused, you tuck the envelope in your bag. You glance back up at him at the exact second you hear your docket number being called. Your solicitor rises and beckons you over. You turn to leave but Sherlock places his hand on your arm. “I never stopped loving you,” he murmurs. “I will never stop loving you.”

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” you whisper, looking up at him. His clear blue-green eyes bore into yours for long seconds. Slowly, He bends down places a soft kiss on your cheek. 

“Remember what I said. Wait until after the divorce is finalized to open that envelope,” he instructs, nodding at the corner of the envelope peaking out of your back. You nod and turn away, heading into the courtroom.

You both stand before the judge, Sherlock on one side of the aisle, you and your attorney on the other. The judge reads through your petition for divorce.

“No shared assets?”he asks.

“No, your honour,” you both reply.

“No children?”

“No, your honour,” you both say again, your throat constricting. You steal a glance at Sherlock and he is looking at you from across the room, and gives you a slight nod, as if to tell you it’s all fine. You wish he was closer so that you could grab his hand and hold on until this was over.

“Separated for ten years?”

“Yes, your honour,” 

“Any objections?” Again, your eyes fly to Sherlock. You wait long seconds, wondering what he will say, wondering what you will say.

“No objections, your honour,” Sherlock says at last, surprising you.

“Mrs. Holmes?” he asks, turning to you.

“No… no objections,” you stammer.

“I hereby dissolve this union. You are so divorced.” And just like that, it’s over. You lock your knees to keep them from buckling and your solicitor shows guides you from the courtroom. You steal one last glance over your shoulder at Sherlock. He hasn’t turned to move from his table, his back is to you now and his head is bowed. You resist the urge to break away from your solicitor and run to him. But you can’t now.

It’s over. It’s done. For good.

_ You pull over and park the bike, pulling off your helmet and wiping the salt from the visor. Your shoulders sting from sunburn and you wish you’d remembered to put sunscreen on. _

_ You are back in the dorms again, at St. George’s, finishing up Med School and long bike rides up and down the coast are really the only time you get to yourself.  _

_ Grenada was a beautiful island filled with happy people, bright colors and a relaxed Caribbean attitude.  To your left, the road drops off and below, the sparkling ocean stretches out before you and you think that it is the exact color of Sherlock’s eyes. Your heart lurches in your chest and you inhale a ragged breath. You miss him so much that the longing has turned into a physical ache that ricochets through your entire body. _

_ You glance down at your left hand reflexively, and for an instant, you panic at the sight of your bare ring finger before you remember that your wedding rings are looped around your neck. You tug them out from beneath your shirt and hold them in your hand tightly. Too many questions about your husband that you just couldn’t answer. You’d found a gorgeous silver chain in the street market for next to nothing and strung the rings there until you could figure out what to do with your life. _

_ You had no idea who you were any more. Each day you gazed at yourself in the mirror and a stranger started back at you. Your hair is lighter, your skin is darker. You’re not a wife anymore, you're not one half of a whole. That life is over now and you are struggling to find your footing in this new life you’ve created. You walk to the edge of the cliff, the waves far below are crashing into the rough, rocky terrain. _

_ “I’m sorry,” you whisper, your words caught by the ocean breeze, pulled from your lips, spun out over the sea before it is taken with the tide. You return your rings to their hiding place beside your heart and stuff your head back into the helmet. You’re going to have to stop and pick up some ointment for your sunburn before heading back to the dorms. The bike roars to life and you're off again. Maybe you will skip the ointment after all. The sting from your burnt skin is a nice distraction from the ache in your heart. _

*******************************************************************************

Wiping your nose on the wad of tissues, you let yourself out of the stall. You look awful, having spent the last five minutes sobbing in the Ladies’ Room. You splash water on your face and pat it dry with the awful, stiff and scratchy paper towels. You hoist your purse up onto your shoulder and exit the restroom.

Outside, you hail a cab and direct the cabby to head towards work. Traffic is a bit heavy, and you settle in for the ride. As the driver takes a sharp turn, your purse tips over and its contents slide out. You reach down to gather up the spilled items and notice the end of the Manila envelope Sherlock had given you. Grabbing it, you slide your finger under the flap and open it, revealing several large, 8 x 10 black and white photos. You squint at the first one and see Ethan standing on a balcony alone, wearing only his bathing suit. Confused as to why Sherlock gave you a picture of Ethan, you flip to the next one and see that a tall, thin blonde with long legs has joined him, also in a bathing suit. Your stomach rolls and with shaking hands you flip to the next photo. There is Ethan, your fiance, locking lips with another woman. 

Picture after picture captures and displays the very thing Sherlock had warned you of. By the pool, on a beach, at dinner. He had even managed to capture the two of them making love in a hot tub at night. You want to put the stack down, but you can’t. You flip the end and the last picture makes you pause.

It’s a garden that looks vaguely familiar and you stare at it until something clicks in your brain. You pull out your phone and search for an address, which you then give to the driver, redirecting him to the outskirts of town.

When you arrive, you are shaking with anticipation. You step out of the cab and know that you have been here before, a long time ago. You pay the driver and head into the public garden. Navigating by memory, you follow the path, coming to a stop in the center of it, just around a bend.

Sherlock is there, seated on a bench, and he looks up when he hears you. Wordlessly, he stands and takes a few steps towards you. You stare at him, taking a moment, remember the last time you were here, remembering the man he was and looking at the man he is now. Remembering the person you were and thinking about the person you are now.

“Hi,” you say at last.

“Hello,” he says, reaching up and buttoning his suit jacket.

“You solved your case then?” you ask, unable to keep the smirk from your lips.

“Yes, although I didn't gain much satisfaction from it,” he replies. 

“I saw the photographs,” you say and then realize you wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t looked. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells you and his eyes are sad and full of regret. “The last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt you. I just needed you to know the truth.”

“But… why now?” you ask. “Why did you wait until we were divorced to show me?”

“I wanted you to know about Ethan because I love you and I want you to be happy. If you don’t want to be married to me, that’s fine. I can accept that. Just… don’t marry him. You deserve better.”

“Sherlock,” you say, gaping at him. “I never stopped loving you, either. I don’t want to marry him. I didn’t want to marry him even before I saw those pictures.” As you say these words, you realize that they are true. All these years, you had been carrying around so much guilt over how you left your marriage with Sherlock and you had been forcing yourself into this relationship with Ethan as if it was a way to make up for the sins of your past. You sniff and a tear escapes your lashes. “I just want to be married to you. It’s all I have ever wanted.”

“That’s all I have ever wanted as well,” he says quietly.

“They why did you let me divorce you?” you cry.

“So I could do this,” he says, reaching in his pocket. He pulls out black velvet ring box and opens it to reveal a rather large, ornate diamond ring. Your reaction is somewhere between a gasp and a laugh and you clap both hands over your mouth to prevent any more ridiculous sounds from coming out. Sherlock is smiling now as he drops to one knee, still holding the ring box in front of you.

“There are so many things I loved about being married to you,” he starts. “And so many things I want to do differently this time.” You slowly pull your hands away from your mouth to reveal your own smile.

“Me, too,” you sniff. 

“Will you allow me to try again?” he asks. “Will you marry me again?”

“No,” you laugh and Sherlock’s eyes go wide. “I mean… no; I don’t want that ring. I want the other ring. My ring.” You say shaking your head. He almost sags with relief as he pockets the velvet ring box and surprised you by producing the dainty diamond he’d given you all those years ago. He holds it out to you and clears his throat.

“I thought you might,” he replies. You awkwardly struggle to remove the ring Ethan had given you, tucking it away in your pocket to return later. Holding out your hand to him, Sherlock returns the ring to its rightful place on your finger. “So… yes?” You reach down and pull him up, wrapping your arms around his neck and crashing your lips to his. It’s hard to kiss when neither of you can stop smiling, but you give it a good try nonetheless. You pull away and bury your face in his neck, still clinging to him. 

“You still haven’t answered me,” he murmurs into your hair. You pull away and gaze down at the ring on your hand. It’s been so long since you’d worn them on your finger, having strung them on the chair to wear around your neck many years ago, yet somehow it seeing it there feels so familiar and natural. You look back up into Sherlock’s eyes and you know he already knows your answer, but you speak it aloud anyway.

“Yes,” you say, your voice breaking. “I would love to marry you again.” And you give him a proper kiss this time.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading. All your kind words and thoughtful feedback was so encouraging to me. I can't thank you enough. There will be an epilogue so keep your eyes peeled. This was an amazing journey and I'm glad you could come on it with me.  
> From the bottom of my heart-- xoxo Sarah

_It’s stupid and irrational and sentimental to even be here and Sherlock knows this, but he couldn’t stop himself. He shifts in his seat, the hot, unrelenting Caribbean sun beating down on him. A light breeze rolls in off the ocean, giving a momentary respite to the heat. His linen shirt is damp with sweat but it does serve to cool him. He wipes his brow on his handkerchief before returning it to his pocket._  
_He flips through the program, eyes scanning through the list of graduates, starting with the Hs and he frowns as he doesn’t see your name there. He finally locates you, listed under your maiden name and it stings more than he thought it would. He looks down at his wedding band, his thumb twisting it on his finger._  
_The ceremony begins and he gazes over the sea of caps and gowns and wonders if you are close to heatstroke dressed in the graduation garb, wherever you are. Suffering through a handful of speeches, he perks up when the graduates are called to line up to receive their degrees. When he finally spots you, his heart leaps into his throat and stays there. You are smiling, chatting with the girl in line behind you. His gaze stays glued to you as you progress closer to the stage. When your name is finally called, it’s pride that fills his heart. You’ve done the thing you set out to do. And even though it’s not the way you set out to do it and even though you are no longer his, he’s immensely proud of you. He claps extra loud, hoping the sound will find its way to your ears and you will know that someone there loves you._  
_As soon as the graduation is over, he makes his escape to a waiting cab, ordering the driver to the airport. The air conditioning in the cab is blasting but he can feel neither heat nor cold at this point._  
_At the airport, he can’t kick this sour taste in his mouth and he buys a small tin of mints, hoping that will help. Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, once the mints are gone but the taste remains, he slides off his wedding ring and carefully folds it in his handkerchief and tucks both into the empty tin._  
_It’s over. It’s done. For now._

_*******************************_

You were honest with Ethan, telling him you were in love with someone else. You don’t bring up his infidelity because at the end of the day, it really isn’t the reason you are breaking up with him. Sherlock’s pictures of him cheating only really served to help you let yourself off the hook. He is heartbroken and angry, but doesn’t put up much of a fight, probably because his own guilty conscience is prohibiting him for being too upset with you for doing exactly what he’s been doing. You had moved your belongings out in the days before he arrived him, so when the messy conversation is done, all that's left is to return his ring and wish him well. He’s away again next week and you don’t know if it’s business or pleasure, but it will give you time to finish moving out.  
You park your bike outside 221B Baker Street and remove your helmet, happy to be home.  
Home.  
This simple word and the feelings associated with it cause tears to well in your eyes. Home is wherever Sherlock is and it’s been years since you’ve truly been home. Returning your ring to Ethan was the final stumbling block that existed between your past and your future and it’s done now.  
You take the stairs up to Sherlock’s flat two at a time and almost crash into him as he comes to meet you at the door. He catches you and you’re laughing as you steady yourself with both hands on his chest.  
“All set?” he asks, smiling as he searches your face for signs of distress after your break-up.  
“Done,” you reply. “It was fine. He was mostly confused and I think I hurt his pride more than anything else.”  
“He will survive,” Sherlock murmurs, brushing your hair back from your face before cradling your face in his hands, his lips capturing yours.  
“I don’t doubt that for a second,” you groan, picturing him with the tall, skinny, blonde. You gazed up at Sherlock, who was still clutching your face with gentle fingers, a sense of calm washing over you. “I’m just happy to be home.”  
“As am I,” he whispers, guiding your lips to his again. You wrap your arms around his neck and arch your back, pressing yourself against his tall, lean frame.  
“We have an hour before John and Mary arrive,” you whisper, pulling away. Sherlock purses his lips, looking down at you and you can see his brilliant mind working away.  
“We’ll want to shower after,” he points out. “You could pull your hair up, minimizing the time it would take to dry and style it. If we remove our clothes with care, we could get away with not ironing a new set. You will of course insist on a quick application of make-up although you don’t need it. That will put us at 35 minutes to prepare for company. Leaving us approximately 25 minutes...” You pull away from him and grab his hand, tugging him hurriedly towards the bedroom.  
“Twenty-four minutes and 58 seconds… 57, 56…” you chant, smiling as Sherlock closed the door behind him. As painful as it was to have to hang your clothes rather than flinging them across the room, Sherlock made excellent use of the time that would have otherwise been spent ironing. Your cheeks were still flushed as you applied the last swipe of mascara, finishing at the same moment the Watsons arrived. Striding into the living room to greet your guests, Sherlock makes a show of checking his watch and flashing you a cheeky smile.  
“We brought champagne! To celebrate!,” Mary announces, hoisting the bottle as she enters the flat.  
“What are we celebrating?” Sherlock asks, bending to plant a kiss on her cheek.  
“Take your pick,” John says, bringing up the rear with Rosie in his arms. “We have a divorce, a called off wedding or an engagement that we can toast to.” Laughing, you take the bottle from Mary and bring it into the kitchen to chill it in a bucket of ice.  
The doorbell rings and you take a mental roll call, wondering who else would be joining you. Sherlock descends the staircase to answer and you busy yourself looking for something that would be a suitable champagne flute substitute. You are vaguely aware of some commotion on the staircase as you find a cupboard full of glass beakers.  
“Y/N?” Sherlock calls from the livingroom. Momentarily abandoning your champagne mission, you head towards the other room and stop short with a gasp.  
“I’ve found two other people who wanted to celebrate with us,” he says softly and tears fill your eyes.  
“Hello, darling girl,” Mrs. Holmes says, her own eyes moist. She holds open her arms for you and your wrapped in her embrace before you even register that you’ve crossed the room.  
“Welcome home, love,” Mr. Holmes says as he wraps his long arms around both of you and it’s almost too much to bear.  
You pull away, wiping your eyes on the backs of your hands and look towards your ex-husband, finance and soon to be husband. He is standing, hands clasped behind his back, managing to look overjoyed and smug at the same time.  
“Thank you,” you mouth and he nods his head almost imperceptibly. There is a pop of a champagne cork and it makes you all jump slightly, then chuckle. Mary and John pass out the champagne and you all hold up your mismatched glasses or beakers and wait for someone to make the toast.  
“To Life,” the senior Mr. Holmes declares.  
“To Life,” you all echo as Sherlock wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you close. You sip the champagne, its bubbles tickling your tongue before you turn and press your lips to Sherlock’s.  
“To our life,” he murmurs quietly before kissing you again. As you pull away and look around the room filled with your smiling friends and family, you just know that this is it. This is where it all begins.


	25. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!!! Look what I found in my docs. The epilogue!  
> Enjoy ❤️❤️❤️❤️

John was surprised to find that all his time spent working beside Sherlock had indeed sharpened his own skills of deduction. As he sat in the living room at 221B Baker Street, he realized just how well honed his own powers had become. He could deduce that his friend was enjoying married life. The normally closed off, curt and sometimes rude detective had not stopped smiling since the small ceremony where he’d exchanged simple but meaningful vows with you. It was as if all was right within Sherlock’s little world again and John often had to take a beat and remind himself that this happy, contented man was indeed his best friend in life. Work and cases had slowed during this honeymoon period, but no one doubted there would be a time where Sherlock’s work would consume him once more. For the time being, however, everyone seemed content to revel in the newly wed bliss.  
There were still more deductions that John could make as he watched you on the carpet, playing with Rosie while sunlight streamed in the through the tall windows. His sharpening detective skills told him that you had, at last, found your place in the world. You were once again part of a greater whole. That whole no longer consisted of just you and Sherlock, but now himself, Mary, Rosie, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, and yes, even Mycroft. After running for so long, you’d finally found yourself surrounded by a loving family. A smile played on John’s lips as he recalled the brief, private moment you two had shared at the wedding. It was the moment before he was set to walk you down the aisle and to give you over to his best friend. You were radiant in your white gown, smiling uncontrollably as you clutched his arm.  
“I hope you know you’re not just marrying Sherlock,” he had whispered to you. “You say those vows and you’re accepting all of us.” You gazed at him for a second, before somehow managing to smile even wider, then planted a kiss on the good doctor’s cheek.  
“I do,” you’d giggled as the music changed, your cue to start your walk towards the altar and your groom.  
Later that evening, after dinner, John made one final deduction. It came to him in bits and pieces of the past few days. The dry crackers on your desk at work, your mysterious switch from coffee to tea. The way you’d declined a glass of wine with dinner, opting instead for water. The way that Sherlock’s hand kept gliding across your abdomen whenever he was near enough to touch you. The secret smiles you two kept sharing as you played with his daughter.  
He managed to confirm his suspicions as he helped you clear the table after dinner.  
“Congratulations,” he whispered and your eyes grew wide.  
“How did you know?” you hissed.  
“I’m a doctor and an amature detective,” he shrugged with a somewhat smug air he’d learned from Sherlock. You’d smiled and patted your own belly gently.  
“We’ve only just found out,” you admit. “Can you play dumb for a bit longer? He really wants to tell you himself.”  
“I will act surprised,” John promised, pulling you in for a hug as he struggled to contain his own emotions. Sherlock was going to be a father with the only woman he’d ever loved. It was more than he could have ever imagined for the two of them. More than he’d ever hoped.   
As they ready to leave, John realized that he was done making deductions for the night. He was tired and so were Rosie and Mary. His little family was ready to be home and he knew the two of you were ready to be alone. You all exchanged good nights and goodbyes before the Watsons headed down the stairs and out into the night.  
John glanced up one last time towards the tall windows of his former flat and paused on the sidewalk, causing Mary to glance back at him curiously. She followed his line of sight up to the second story and saw two figures, dancing slowly in the dim light, your head resting on Sherlock’s chest while his arms banded around your waist.   
“Come on, you,” Mary said, nudging her husband with her shoulder. “Let’s get Her Highness to bed, then you can twirl me around the living room a few times. If you can remember how, that is.” With a chuckle, John tore his eyes away from the shadow figures and set off towards home, wondering how it was exactly that he’d become less of a romantic than Sherlock Holmes.  
Back inside 221B, Sherlock ends your slow dance, telling you that you’ve been on your feet far too long tonight.   
“You know that’s an old wives tale,” you say even though your feet are aching. You dim the lights as he locks up for the night and follows you into the bedroom. Your few personal items had become mixed with Sherlock’s over the past few months and it was already as if you’d always been here. Sherlock watches as you fish in his drawer for a soft t-shirt and pair it with a soft pair of your own panties to sleep. A blend of the two of you, a symbol of the way all things have become since your divorce, engagement and marriage. As he spoons up behind you, his hand cups your lower belly, where his is convinced his son is growing while you maintain it’s your daughter. It doesn’t actually matter to either of you though. All that matters is that this is exactly where you both are supposed to be.


End file.
